


Stuck

by alyalsmith



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, Winter Soldier Bucky, tony's daddy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 63,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyalsmith/pseuds/alyalsmith
Summary: Isla and Rose are normal civilians until a weekend in December of their sophomore year. Then they're swept into the world of the Avengers and nothing is ever quite the same.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue that introduces Isla and Rose's fathers (Walter and Marcus) as SHIELD agents. Note that neither Isla nor Rose know that their parents work at SHIELD, this is just to set up the narrative

“We’ve got a group of ten hostiles approaching Engine One. We need agents down there  _ now _ !” Maria Hill shouted. SHIELD agents, all of them technicians, looked up briefly at their superior officer before returning to tapping on their keyboards. All except two.

“We’ll go,” a voice declared. Maria breathed a sigh of relief as she turned around again. Perhaps Captain America and Mr. Stark would have a chance. Her eyes narrowed with annoyance once she saw who her volunteers were. 

“Clavell. Smith. What do you think you are doing?” she asked tiredly. 

“Volunteering, ma’am,” Smith replied coolly, saluting. 

“You are not fit to be in the field. You were allowed onto this ship purely for-”

“Technological purposes. We were to help Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner with anything that he might need. But we also know that you are short on agents, that all of the ship’s systems are failing and that we desperately need Mr. Stark and the Captain to succeed,” the polished British accent of Marcus Clavell’s voice fell gratingly on Maria’s ears. 

In fairness, the two men were excellent agents. Were. That was all before Paris. Maria winced, remembering the fierce reprimand she received from Fury after debriefing him on the results of the mission. Six  HYDRA agents and a small briefcase of intel hardly seemed recompense for the damage caused to the two men and their careers.

“Fine,” she said, after much hesitation. “Go.” Clavell and Smith allowed themselves small smiles of success before exiting the bridge and setting off at a jog through the maze like corridors of the floating ship. 

The smell of burning metal filled their noses long before the two men reached the anteroom before the engine. Hearing voices, the two crouched beneath a control desk and watched as ten sets of black combat boots marched quickly towards the engine. Walter Smith leaned forward, wanting to take the offensive before the hostiles reached their destination, but Clavell’s arm shot out and caught the man square across the chest. 

“Wait,” he whispered urgently. Walter’s lips tightened in disapproval, but he listened to the words of his elder companion. 

“On my mark,” Marcus murmured. “One. Two. Wait for it... _ Three!” _ The two jumped out from the desk and drew their weapons simultaneously. The clatter made by their movement caused the opposing soldiers to turn around in alarm. Smith grinned. 

“Just like Paris, Marcus, eh?” he laughed as he rolled across the surface of the desk, narrowly missing a volley of bullets. 

“Paris was not half as much fun for me as it was for you,” Marcus replied wryly, tapping his knee cap with his forefinger. Walter frowned. 

“How  _ is  _ your leg?” he queried, giving one of the soldiers a solid kick to the head and a blow to the stomach to the other. 

“It’s fine. And I’m not one to complain-Mizaya’s the one who should,” Marcus shrugged. Walter nodded, the mention of his wife quieting his desire for chatter. He fired in quick succession at the soldiers surrounding them. Three men fell to his precise aim, one more to Marcus’. But despite losing consciousness, no blood gushed from the marks the bullets left. 

“They’ve given us icers, dammit,” Walter swore, slamming the butt of his gun into the forehead of an advancing soldier. “It’s not like we’re back at the Academy! We’re not kids-we’re agents!” Marcus gave no reply, balling his hand into a fist and slamming it into the windpipe of his assailant. The remaining two soldiers ducked into the engine room. Marcus and Walter exchanged glances before reloading their icers and entering the room as well. 

The acrid smell intensified as they stepped out onto the grated metal walkways surrounding the huge turbine. Sparks burst out from the edges of broken pipes and wires, small fires danced across the corners of the room. A red and gold suit encasing the body of Tony Stark levitated above the rotors of the engine as the man cut apart the debris with a laser. The sound of gunshots directed the agents to where help was needed most: Captain America was grappling with the two soldiers three walkway floors above Walter and Marcus. 

“You would think that a genetically-enhanced super hero wouldn’t have too much trouble with a couple of soldiers, HYDRA or not,” Walter muttered.

“Maybe he’s having an off-day?” Marcus suggested. Walter chuckled dryly before catching the overhead walkway and swinging himself on top of it, heedless of the thousands of feet of open air below the wrecked engine. Marcus hesitated before following. 

He found his companion scaling the stairwell onto the third walkway, where the Captain and his attackers were struggling. Marcus hurried to Walter’s side, his icer cocked firmly across his left wrist. 

“You take the one closest to us, I’ll take the other,” Walter murmured. Marcus nodded before aiming at his target’s right ankle. Twice he fired, hitting the Achilles tendon in two places. The soldier stumbled backward as Marcus pulled him into a headlock. The other soldier turned to help him, only to be sent flying across the walkway by a punch from Captain America. Walter started after the fallen soldier to finish him off when Marcus cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground, clutching his knee. Walter stopped dead in his tracks, looking back at his fallen comrade. A gunshot ripped through the air and Walter fell, unbalanced, off of the walkway, blood trickling from the wound in his shoulder. He held on desperately to the walkway with his good arm just as five more hostile agents barged through the engine room door. 

“We’ve got a security breach on the bridge. Levels Two and Three are dark, the Hulk and Thor on Level Four. More agents are approaching the engine room” Maria Hill shouted through the comms. “Repeat-we have multiple hostiles spreading through the ship."

“You could say that again,” Walter grimaced as he dragged himself back onto the walkway, silently thanking the years of physical training he had endured with Marcus at the Academy. He watched as Captain America ducked a salvo of machine gun bullets, fighting his way through the enemy soldiers. Three fell to the super soldier's flying limbs, but the other four were persistent in their task, firing shot after shot. 

“Toss it to me,” Walter yelled, indicating the bazooka of a dead soldier. The Captain fired a row of bullets at the soldiers as he threw the firearm to the agent. Walter caught it with relative ease and set to shooting at the enemy from behind, inching his way back to Marcus’ prone body. Just as he reached his friend, the ship tipped crazily to one side. 

“All systems are offline. Engine Three is also down,” Fury’s voice echoed in the ears of the four men. “Stark-”

“Got it,” Tony Stark replied. Walter saw Iron Man’s suit disappear beneath the rotors of the engine. Slowly, the rotors began to move-Walter assumed that Mr. Stark was pushing the blades of metal so that the engine would start working again. Which meant that unless there was some way to reverse the polarity, there was no way Stark was getting out of the engine alive. Walter searched the walls of the engine room for a lever of some sort, and there it was, next to Captain America. It explained the man’s inability to take out the soldiers so easily-he needed to stay next to the lever so that Stark wouldn’t be smashed to death by the powerful turbine. 

“Marcus!” Walter hissed. “You okay?” Marcus’ eyelids fluttered. 

“Yes. I’ll be alright. It’s this damned knee. I think the kneecap is well and truly shattered this time around,” Marcus gave a ghost of a smile. Walter squeezed his friend’s shoulder before getting to his feet, grimacing at the pain that shot up his arm when he tried to move it. He staggered over to the lever, using the enemies’ concentration on Captain America as a distraction. 

“I’ve got the lever. Go,” he told the Captain. The man nodded, but at that moment, Stark increased his speed and pushed the rotors even faster. The force of the engine pushed the Captain backwards onto the broken part of the walkway, until he was teetering on the edge of the metal grating. A barrage of bullets from the final soldier pushed the supersoldier off the edge. He tried to grasp at the edge of the walkway but failed. He was left clawing his way up a stray pipe sticking from the side of the wall, blown this way and that by the wind. 

Walter was torn-should he return fire at the soldier or help the Captain? His indecision earned him another gunshot that grazed his side. Walter gasped for the air that suddenly seemed so difficult to breathe, his fingernails screeching against the metal walls as he slipped to his knees once more. The enemy soldier fired a quick succession of shots at Walter. He barely managed to duck beneath the railing bolted to the walkway and avoid the bullets. 

Determined to return fire, he gritted his teeth and pulled his bazooka into his lap, tipping it to one side before attempting to shoot. He missed, and to his dismay, the gun skidded out of his grasp and fell off of the edge of the walkway. The soldier raised his gun to dispatch Walter when a flash of blue light forced him to the floor, unconscious. Walter heard Marcus’ dry chuckle and leaned back in relief. 

“Thanks, Clavell,” he said. 

“Don’t mention it,” Marcus’ light-albeit strained-reply came floating up the walkway. 

“Guys,” Tony crackled over the comms.  _ Oh look, he’s decided to acknowledge us,  _ Walter thought to himself sardonically, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his side with his hands, and failing miserably. 

“ _ Guys _ ,” Stark repeated, much more urgently this time. The whirring of the rotors increased to a deafening pitch. “I need someone to hit the lever.” Stark’s voice was tinged with a fear that jolted Walter out of his haze of pain as the rotors turned faster and faster. 

“We need a minute here,” Captain America replied, sliding at a painfully slow pace up his lifeline of a wire pipe. 

“Lever! Now!” Stark barked, ignoring his comrade, and the three men heard a series of sickening crunches as Stark was thrown backwards and forwards against the spinning engine. 

“I won’t be able to reach it. Agent, could you-” the Captain gasped, trying to climb up the pipe faster, but to no avail. 

“I know,” Walter told him. “I’m trying.” He gripped the ridges of the wall for support and pulled himself upwards, his fingers grasping at the red bar. 

“Cap!” Stark yelled over the crashing sounds.  _ They are depending on you, these superhumans,  _ Walter told himself grimly.  _ And you had better not screw this up.  _ His fingers curled around the red plastic and he gripped it for all he was worth, letting his body weight drag it down. The engine slowed momentarily, and Iron Man flew free just as the Captain managed to pull himself back onto the walkway. 

“You alright?” The Captain asked Walter, offering him a hand. Walter shook his head, preferring to remain on the ground so as not to open up his side wound any more than it already was.

“Fine. An hour in the med wing back at HQ and I should be fine. Marcus, though…” Walter nodded at his friend. Captain America’s face darkened with concern. 

“What happened? Thank you for all this, by the way. Me-me and Stark-wouldn’t have been here if not for you guys,” Rogers stuttered, kneeling beside Marcus, whose eyes widened in surprise as he recognized who the man was. 

“C-Captain America?” Marcus stammered. 

“That’s me,” the man in question looked slightly embarrassed. 

“You know, it’s really been an honor helping you. And just...you know...Helping and being with you and stuff,” Walter interjected. Marcus shot him a glance. 

“Can you not?” he hissed. “Mr. Rogers, what we mean to say is that-”

“You know, I was actually doing most of the work,” Stark landed neatly on the walkway, the blue light of the blasters attached to his feet and palms going out as he touched solid ground. “Also, Marcus, Paris should have taught you to stay away from men with big guns.” 

“Oh please-” Marcus scoffed

“Please nothing. You were on field rest. REST. I don’t even know why Hill put you guys on this ship in the first place,” Stark rolled his eyes, and clicked his tongue disapprovingly, looking comically out-of-character as a mother hen. Captain America frowned, as if confused to this change and the familiarity between his fellow companions.

“Much as I appreciate the sentimentality from the man with an arc-reactor for a heart, I’m perfectly-”

“I’ve got one word for you: goats,” Stark interrupted a disgruntled Marcus. 

“Okay, what happened in Paris?” the Captain asked finally, his curiosity overwhelming his propriety. Walter colored and stared at the ground, unwilling to divulge the events of the cataclysmic disaster. 

“Well, it started out alright,” Marcus began, as if to soothe Walter. 

“Smith and Clavell were-are-some of the best field agents SHIELD's got. Which isn't really saying much. Anyways, They had some mission or something and bumped into me and Potts when we were in Paris,” Stark recounted. Marcus pushed himself into a sitting position. 

“Bumped? You were half-drunk and trying to give a speech to the shrubs around the Tuileries. Fury sent us to tail you so that you wouldn’t make an idiot out of yourself,” Marcus snorted. 

“Potayto, potahto. Anyways, we were-” A crackle of static over the comms interrupted Stark’s chatter. 

“Agent Coulson is down,” Fury’s sober yet clearly grief-stricken voice echoed with deadening finality throughout the ship. The air of light camaraderie that follows shared near-death experiences dissipated immediately. Stark’s lips tightened. 

“Let’s get you guys to medical,” he said finally. He helped Marcus to his feet, while the Captain did the same for Walter. When they reached the med wing, Marcus was tossed a roll of ACE bandages and a painkiller by a very flushed nurse, who was helping a host of other agents with far more severe injuries. Marcus split both the bandages and the pill in half and gave them to Walter. 

“Down the hatch,” Walter muttered, dry-swallowing the painkiller. He bound his side wound with experienced fingers, tying the knot neatly as Marcus finished his makeshift knee splint. He deserved better medical attention, yes, but there was nothing he could do-not now. Rogers, who had lapsed into silence after Fury’s announcement, turned to the two men.

“Do you have families waiting for you at home?” he asked quietly. They nodded. 

“A wife and four kids for each,” Stark supplied. Walter was surprised-after Paris, he hadn’t really connected with Stark, and Paris had been at least fifteen years ago. The fact that Stark had kept up with his and Marcus’ personal life made Walter think twice about the self-centered billionaire. 

“Go home to them. I can make no promises of what’s about to happen, but I want you to take Quinjets and leave the aircraft,” Rogers said tersely. 

“We have orders-” Marcus began. 

“Follow mine, then. I’m a captain, aren’t I?” Rogers wore a ghost of a smile. The two men looked like they wanted to argue. Then Walter held out his hand. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers,” he said, his Southern accent thickening with pride as the Captain took it. 

“You too. Thank you, Clavell, Smith. I don’t know what we would-” he said. 

“Cut the patriotic crap, Cap,” Stark said wryly. “Clavell, Smith-”

“We’ll see you around, Stark. Remember-you owe me,” Walter managed a smirk before helping Marcus down the stairs and out onto the open deck. The two Avengers watched them go. 

“What happened in Paris?” Rogers asked again. 

“Paris...That’s a story for another time,” Stark’s lips quirked oddly. “Coulson’s gone. Fury wants to debrief us on what happened.” The Captain looked like he wanted to say more, but then decided against it. He nodded before marching swiftly down the corridor. He had the god of Mischief

to find.


	2. It Begins (Isla's POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter, just to introduce you to the characters. The Avengers will be introduced soon!

It was snowing. In April. White, fluffy flakes floated down from the slate-grey sky, sticking to the window panes of the dining hall. There is a steady hum of voices mixing with the smell of pancakes, scrambled eggs and frying bacon emitting from the kitchens. 

“Did you hear?’ A tall girl with milk-white skin and strawberry-blonde hair slides her arm around my shoulders. My best friend, Rose and I exchange confused glances before shaking our heads. 

“Honestly? Do you guys never check the weather or anything?” the girl, Naomi, snorts. Rose and I shake our heads again. 

“D’you remember the crazy snowstorm in February?” 

“Yes,” I frown. “There’s not another one, is there?”

“Apparently. We had a snow day last time, but it’s so close to our long weekend they’re just extending it to a full two weeks. The schedule won’t change, though, fortunately,” Naomi explains.

“Fortunately?” Rose snorts. “Fortunately for Saturday classes.” I chuckle dryly.

“Gotta love ‘em,” I grab a suspiciously brown-looking pear and attempt to remove the skin off of it with my sleeve. 

“So...What are you guys going to do?” Naomi asks as we join the growing line for pancakes. 

“Do what?” I yawn widely, biting absently into my pear. 

“For this surprise long weekend-pay attention,” Naomi snatches the pear and munches it voraciously. 

“Naomi!” I scold, trying to retrieve it. 

“Isla,” she mimics, holding it just out of reach. 

“Both of you,” Rose intervenes, returning the now-bruised pear to me. “Enough. I’m going back home. What about you, Isla?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “My parents are in Manila at the moment-heaven knows when they’ll be back in the US-so I can’t go home.” 

I go to a boarding school, in case this wasn’t clear. Why do I go to a boarding school, one might ask? Well, it began with a roof, a cat and a hairdryer and ended with me being shipped across the country. It’s one of your run-of-the-mill New England prep schools, filled with lacrosse jocks that only ever wear Brooks Brothers and all other kinds of angsty, pretentious teenagers who always think they know what they’re talking-or writing-about. 

“Manila?” Naomi raises an eyebrow. “Why Manila? And what about the rest of your family?"

“My siblings are at home. I hope they have someone taking care of them. As to my parents' whereabouts and their reasons for it, I have no idea. I called them and they were all ‘hello, we’re on the other side of the planet, lovely talking to you, bye’,” I sigh. 

“Well, you can come and stay with me,” Rose suggests. 

“You know, I might want to take you up on that offer,” I muse, serving myself a stack of pancakes and allowing Rose to drizzle on some syrup. 

“D’you think your mom will mind?” I ask Rose. She shrugs. 

“I don’t think so. She loves you, anyways,” she rolls her eyes. 

“Does she? Oh, I’m so glad,” I grin.  

“Yes...She loves your mom, too, after those vases she sent her,” Rose continues. 

“Oh yes. It was odd, you know. I hadn’t told her about my plans the first time I came to your house, but she said she already knew,” I frown. Rose had invited Naomi and me to her house for the winter long weekend. I live on the other side of the country, in foggy San Francisco, and Naomi lives in Lansing, Michigan. It’s hard enough to find flights every Christmas and Easter break, let alone the three-day weekend breaks in between. The weekend was some of the best fun I’ve had in awhile, what with snowball fights every day and then stealing bites of food from whatever was cooking in the crock pot Rose’s mom would have sitting on the stove. 

“Much as I would love to puzzle that out, we have Chapel in five,” Rose glances at the clock that hangs above the staircase, grimacing at how close the long hand is to the twelve. 

“Chapel at eight o’clock every morning, rain or shine,” I grumble, walking swiftly to the dish washing area at the back of the dining hall. 

“And this morning, it’s rain,” Rose sighs as we venture outside, following the large group of students making their way to the Neo-Gothic chapel sitting like some stone gargoyle amidst the curtain of icy rain. Once inside, the smell of damp clothes and burning incense permeates the air. High-vaulted ceilings give way to stained glass windows depicting the birth of Jesus on one end and his crucifixion on the other. The main body of the Chapel has pews faced horizontally and going up either side with an aisle in the middle, filled with soaked students and teachers. A pulpit stands before a set of pews faced vertically for the choir. The altar lies behind, with a red and gold brocade curtain falling from the ledge beneath the first stained glass window. We gather here every morning to hear a senior give a speech about whatever knowledge he or she wishes to impart to the rest of the student body. Afterwards, there is a hymn and then everyone leaves to get to their first class. The caretaker of our chapel, Elizabeth Whitaker, is standing at the pulpit when Rose and I enter. We take our seats alongside other members of our class. When the hubbub of milling teenagers has settled down, she taps the microphone attached to the edge of the lectern balanced atop the pulpit. 

“Good morning everyone,” she says, her voice resounding through the Chapel. “As I am sure many of you have heard, we will be having a shortened week due to the weather. The day after tomorrow, all of you will be expected to leave the campus. We apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused-please speak with anyone in the Dean's Office if you need help.” 

“Thanks again,” I whisper to Rose, squeezing her hand gently. 

“Don’t mention it,” she replies out of the corner of her mouth, before she is shushed by one of the teachers sitting behind us.


	3. Passwords, JARVIS and a Helicopter (Isla's POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another filler chapter--please bear with me :) They do meet JARVIS but next chapter is Avengers!

“Hello Mummy and Daddy,” Rose chirps into the phone pressed to her ear. It’s the day we leave for long weekend. Classes have finished, as have sports practices, and the dorm is thrown into a flurry of packing and preparing for a week-long hiatus from school. It’s very welcome-living every hour of every day with one’s friends and frenemies can cultivate a rather stressful environment. Rose and I are waiting in our rooms for her father to come and collect us. I am finishing up an episode of  _ Scandal  _ on Netflix when my phone starts buzzing on the desk next to my bed. I roll off the mattress and unplug my earphones hurriedly when I read the caller ID-my father. 

“Hi Daddy,” I say nervously, running through every bad thing I’ve ever done ever and wondering which one he’s found out about. 

“Hello Isla,” his voice on the other end replies. “I’m just calling to make sure you are set with Rose?”

“I mean yeah, but I don’t remember telling-” I try to say. 

“Good. Her-sorry, I’ve got a caller on the other line. Hang on, okay?” a four-note sequence fills my ear as he accepts the other call. Presently, the irritating tune ceases with a click as my father ends the call and returns to mine. 

“Okay Isla. I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay? There’s going to be a helicopter landing on the field across from the Chapel in five minutes. You need to get into that helicopter with Rose and stay in there. JARVIS will help you from there. Do you think you can do that for me?” His voice is strained, but I can tell he’s trying to sound calm. I wonder what the call was about. 

"What? Why? And who is JARVIS?” I want to know. What was going on? 

“He’s a friend. Tell him our password, okay? Blue skies, sweetie," It sounds like he wants to say more, but a wave of static forces me to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid getting deafened. I try to call him back, but it goes straight to voicemail. Consternation building within me, I stride to Rose’s room and look inside. 

“My father just ended his call the wierdest way...He said that he won’t be picking us up. We have to go to-” Rose says confusedly. 

“A field across from the Chapel?” I guess.

“Yeah...With a guy named JARVIS. How’d you know?” Rose queries. 

“My dad just told me the same thing,”I admit. 

“And then he just cut out. Static, and then I couldn’t call him back. I tried calling my Mum, too, but she wouldn’t pick up,” Rose’s voice starts to rise in panic. 

“Since when have our parents coordinated so well that they call us at the exact same time and tell us the exact same thing?” I ask aloud. 

“Since never,” Rose answers my question, her forehead creased with worry. “D’you think we should do what they say?”

“Do we have a choice?” I reply. “We can’t stay on campus, and most of the other students have left.”  Rose considers a moment, then nods her agreement before gathering her bags. We head down the corridor into my room. I throw my headphones and laptop into a camo tote bag and sling it on my shoulder. I yank the handle out of a small suitcase and drag it behind me as we leave the dorm. The snow has stopped, but the wind is howling outside. I force my arms through a sweatshirt and toss Rose a jacket. 

“Wear it,” I tell her when she makes a face. “It’s freezing!”

“You are smaller than me. I’m not going to fit into it!” she protests. 

“Shut up and wear it,” I order. After much grumbling, she acquiesces and squeezes into the jacket. The wind starts to pick up as we near the Chapel, then raising to an annoyingly high pitch as it screams through the trees. I check my watch worriedly as we struggle across the field behind the Gothic structure with our suitcases. 

“It’s been about five minutes since the call-where’s the ‘copter?” I yell over the wind. Rose shrugs as she drags the zipper of her jacket up to her chin. The wind continues its screeching, increasing in great gales of icy force. I grip onto the handle of my suitcase, wondering what the hell was going on. And as suddenly as it has come, the wind stops abruptly. A silver helicopter drifts gracefully down to us, its rotors slowing its speed so that is hovers slightly above the ground. 

“Hello Miss Clavell and Miss Smith. How is the weather?” A male voice with the same British accent as Rose’s dad asks pleasantly from the pilot’s seat of the helicopter. Which is odd, because despite the tinted glass, I can’t make out an actual person sitting there. 

“Um, sir? I’m Isla and this is Rose and our parents said to meet with someone called JARVIS?” I say quickly. 

“I am he. How is the weather?” the voice replies. Rose cocks her head to one side as if asking me what I think is going on. 

“Weather’s fine. A bit windy,” I say, feeling slightly self-conscious now. My father said that I had to find JARVIS, right? Well, here he was. Why did he care about the weather, and why was he not letting us on his very sleek and modern-looking helicopter and why did I get the oddest feeling that JARVIS wasn’t a he, but in fact an ‘it’? 

“Indeed. How is the weather?” JARVIS repeats. 

“I don’t-what?” Rose asks, and I can tell from her voice she’s starting to panic again. And that’s when it hits me. 

“Oh! It’s our password!” I exclaim excitedly. 

“What?” Rose looks at me in bewilderment. 

“Our password. I’m so stupid-that’s what my dad was trying to tell me!” I turn to the helicopter and continue confidently. “Mr. JARVIS. It’s lovely weather here. I think it’ll be blue skies from here on out.”

“ _ What?  _ Isla, are you insane? It was windy enough to-” Rose stops talking as the hatch to the helicopter opens with a soft whirr. 

“My father and I-if I was ever in trouble or needed to make sure he was who he said he was, one of us would ask how the weather was. The other had to reply that it would be blue skies and that’s when we’d know it was safe to talk,” I explain quickly. 

“When did you ever find yourself in the position where you needed to use a password? This isn’t James Bond,” Rose exclaims, annoyed. I shrug. 

“Better be prepared, right? Besides, now we know that my father knows this JARVIS. We can trust him. Hopefully,” I say, climbing aboard the plane. Rose hesitates, staring at the empty cockpit with growing trepidation before following me. 

The inside of the airship is wide and spacious. A glass table with glossy magazines is bolted to the floor. Crimson cushions and throw rugs are scattered tastefully across white couches that line the sides of the helicopter. A drink bar wraps around the wall that separates the cockpit from the rest of the airship. 

“Thank you for your co-operation, ladies. May I welcome you aboard,” JARVIS’ voice sounds pleased, but I can’t be sure, because I can see that my hunch was proved correct. There is no flesh-and-blood pilot. 

“Isla,” Rose sounds terrified. “There’s no one on here.”

“I know,” I reply calmly. “My guess is some sort of autopilot system. Speakers pick up whatever we’re saying and you get an automated response-like Siri. We’ll be fine. I think.”

“Oh, and that’s so comforting,” Rose snaps. 

“Please, make yourselves comfortable. Our destination today is New York City, in the state of New York. Once we reach our cruising height, there will be no threat of turbulence. During takeoff and landing, however, I would advise you to take your seats. My apologies-safety regulations must be met,” JARVIS says. 

“Um, Mr JARVIS?” I ask as Rose and I stow our suitcases in the overhead compartments. “Why New York?”

“It would give me much pleasure to share with you the answer to that question, but I have been told to save explanations for your host to give when we arrive,” JARVIS says. A series of beeps and clicks follow his words, and I hear the entrance hatch bolt shut and a whirring increases in sound as what I suspect to be the rotors start to spin, lifting us off of the ground. I sit on the couch, swaying as a fit of turbulence rocks the helicopter. Rose pales and I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile, while digging my nails into the edge of my seat. I’ve been on a plane probably more than I’ve been on the ground my whole life, but turbulence still scares me. I fix the smile on my face (more for my own benefit rather than Rose’s) and suppress the fear in my belly until the floor stops shaking.

“My apologies everyone,” JARVIS says after a time. “We have reached cruising altitude. There are non-alcoholic beverages in the right cabinet of the drink bar, and nourishment on the left. There is also wifi and power outlets on either end of the cabin. There is a bathroom at the far end as well. We will be landing in approximately one hour and twenty-five minutes.”

“What is going on?” I hiss to Rose. 

“Does it look like I know?” she hisses back. I make a face, sucking my cheeks and pursing my lips. Rose laughs.

“You know, getting on a very suspicious-looking helicopter that landed on the sketchy field behind the Chapel where all the couples go to you-know-what was probably not the most genius idea I’ve had,” I say finally.

“Yeah, you think?” Rose snorts. 

“Well. Too late now, right?” I sigh. “Besides, free wifi!” Rose rolls her eyes as I open my laptop and connect to the wifi. I plug in my headphones sign in to my Tumblr account. Rose heads over to the drink bar and returns with two cans of Sprite and a couple of candy bars before joining me on the couch with her phone. I crack open the soda and gratefully sip the fizzy liquid, already enjoying the ride.


	4. Stark Offers Me Scotch (Isla's POV)

I suppose I should have been perturbed-for the record, I try not to make a habit of getting into sketchy vehicles with equally sketchy people-but I wasn’t. My father did tell me to find JARVIS-who or what he was-and despite my somewhat rocky relationship with my parents, transportation to and from school was their territory. If they asked me to do something, I had better do it. Besides, if something actually happened to Rose and me with this Jarvis, I would have the satisfaction of being able to berate them after whatever snafu that appeared had worked itself out.  _ If. If you get out of this-whatever this is. Since when do you go to New York?  _ The annoyingly rational voice in the back of my mind whispers. I really, really hate that voice sometimes. 

_ Maybe Rose’s parents- _

_ Rose’s parents live in Vermont.  _

_ Maybe Mom and Dad- _

_ They are in Manila.  _

No, I’m not crazy. Just your run-of-the-mill argument with the voices in my head. Normal, right? I am about to continue said argument, when JARVIS’ voice comes over the speakers,

“I am sorry to interrupt your activities, but we will be experiencing some turbulence in approximately three minutes. If you could make sure that you are seated and comfortable, we can commence with the landing.” Rose and I are happy to oblige and peer out the windows at the twinkling lights of the city below us. Despite my aversion to flying and the turbulence that rocks the main cabin back and forth for the next few minutes, there is something so beautiful about the clarity with which one can see the tiny cars winding their way around equally tiny buildings. The Chrysler and Empire State Buildings jut upwards, spearing the inky blackness of the night sky with their lights. But it’s the building a little to the left of the other two that really takes Rose and my breath away. 

“What is that?” Rose wants to know. 

“Stark Tower. The crazy-rich guy with the iron suits? He and the Avengers-”

“I don’t live under a rock, Isla. I know who the Avengers are,” Rose chides. 

““Wonder why it’s got an ‘A’ instead of an ‘S’,” she frowns.

“It stands for Avengers,” JARVIS answers. Again, I can’t really tell because he’s basically the British male version of Siri, but it sounds like he’s been restraining himself from talking more. 

“ _ Cool, _ ” Rose says, her eyes glowing. 

“Cool indeed,” I agree. I wonder vaguely where we’re landing. I get the feeling that JFK is not really an option, and I can’t think of any private airports lying smack in the middle of New York City. I can see that the Avengers Tower has a landing pad, but why would-

“Where are we landing?” Rose asks for me. 

“The Avengers Tower,” JARVIS replies, somewhat loftily. My eyebrows shoot upwards in shock-the Avengers?

“No  _ way _ ,” Rose mutters, as we spiral downwards towards the landing pad. 

“This is insane,” I agree as the helicopter drifts to a stop. 

“Please leave your bags in the aircraft. I will have them brought to your rooms. Mr. Stark is waiting in the living room on Level Thirty-four. The elevator on your left will take you there,” JARVIS informs us. Not for the first time that day-or, I suspect, the last-Rose and I exchange looks of trepidation. 

“We’ve come this far-might as well go the whole hog,” I say. Rose nods and descends through the entry hatch. The outside air holds a chill, but the elevator JARVIS mentioned is not much more than twenty paces away. I punch the circle of metal attached to the side of the wall and hear a hum of machinery as the doors slide open. 

“Is this a joke? Or something equally ridiculous?” Rose shakes her head in disbelief as I press the button labeled with a three and a four. The doors slide shut and the elevator shoots upwards. 

“I really don’t know. How can our parents be involved with this Mr. Stark? These people are, like, national heroes,” I say. 

“Yeah. My father does not-cannot-know the Avengers,” Rose declares as the elevator stops and the doors open. 

“Owes them, more like,” a voice corrects. The scene before us looks like something out of a movie. Two redheaded women sit chatting in low voices by a bar with a gold and white marble tabletop. A guy in a black t-shirt and camo cargo pants is polishing what looks like a bow (think Katniss Everdeen-bow, not Minnie Mouse) on a couch with red and gold plush cushions. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the nighttime skyline of New York City. The speaker is a man about my height with close-cropped black hair and a glowing blue triangle in the center of his chest. 

“Tony Stark,” he says, smiling brightly.  

“Tony Stark?” I’m shocked into this reality that I’ve found myself in when he shakes my hand. 

"Uhm...I uhm. I’m a big fan of...Of your work, Mr. Stark. Your advancements in technology are incredible. And...uhm...Thanks for saving the world?” Stark grins, almost catlike. 

“Don’t mention it. Welcome to my house. Your father's owes me a lot of money. You guys are the ransom.”  _ Well,darn.  _ I think.  _ That went downhill pretty quickly. At least that explains the nice helicopter, then. Iron Man wants us for ransom. I suppose things could be worse. But why? What have I ever done? Oh God, what did my father do? I leave the house for six months and this is what happens. But Stark's a hero, right? Part of the Avengers or whatever. What has my father done to get me into this mess?  _ I pause my mental tirade at my father and frown. What  _ did _ Stark plan on using us for? We were underage minors, not even halfway through high school. What use were we to him? Aside from bargaining chips, I supposed. But bargaining chips for what? What might my father have that the illustrious Tony Stark would not?

“To-ny,” one of the redheads-well, she was really more of an auburn than truly red-admonishes. Stark’s face falls. 

“Fine, fine. I’m joking,” he waves his hands, annoyed that his ruse was ended so quickly. 

“It’s really the other way around,” the other redhead-she’s the actual redhead, as in, blood red hair redhead-chuckles. “He’s been in their debt for a while, now. Ever since...well, ever since Paris.” The mention of whatever Paris is or was sobers Tony.  
“Yes...I suppose you’re right. Scotch, you two?” Rose and I look at each other, wondering if this is some sort of test. 

“ _ Tony, _ ” the first redhead says warningly. “Leave these poor girls alone.” She smiles kindly at us. 

“I’m Pepper Potts, Tony’s...assistant, shall we say? He’s only joking, of course, but can I get you guys anything? Water, soda? The flight over must have been hard,” she says. I shrug.

“Eh, well. Private ‘copter, male-version of Siri catering to our every need-it could have been worse,” I say. There’s a beat of silence, and I gulp, praying that someone will laugh. Then Tony starts chuckling and I breathe a sigh of relief as everyone else joins in. Even the guy with the bow smirks a little before resuming his polishing. 

“I’m Natasha,” the other redhead introduces herself. “And that’s Clint.” Clint (i.e. male Katniss) waves. 

“As in...Natasha Romanov. And Clint Barton? Black Widow and Hawkeye? I-I’m Isla Smith,” I stutter, a smile starting to creep across my face. I'd seen the Tumblr posts and the Vines reblogged all over the Internet of the fight sequences the traffic cams in New York caught of the duo. I'm not going to lie and say that I haven't stalked them to the best of my ability, but hey-what happened in Budapest was pretty cool.

“And I’m Rose Clavell,” Rose says, grinning. 

“Clavell?” Natasha makes her way to the couch and sits next to Clint, folding her legs beneath her. “I think I’ve heard the name before. Do you have any siblings?”

“Three. Nathan, Gavin and a sister, Emma,” Rose answers. 

“Emma Clavell...Well yes, I suppose I know her...Tony, how  _ do  _ you know their parents again?” Natasha asks. 

“Excellent question,” I pipe up. Natasha motions us over to the couch and we comply, twisting around so that we face Stark. 

“Paris, obviously, but before then... They were work colleagues,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. I narrow my eyes as I remember that this is Avengers tower. 

“How are they tangled up with Anthony Stark, Iron Man, etc, etc?” I question. Stark glances at Natasha, who inclines her head ever so slightly. 

“Your father’s work,” she says. 

“Is investment banking in Japan,” I reply tersely. “Unless Stark Enterprises has a branch in Japan-”

“Which it does, actually,” the woman called Ms. Potts says quickly. 

“Does it?” I ask, turning to her with raised eyebrows. Last year, the Avengers were all over the news. They’d saved the world from an invasion of aliens. But most of it was hushed-up. The wreckage was mysteriously cleared away within the a few days after the battle by darkly-clothes figures weaving in and out of the debris. What footage news reporters could obtain was interrupted by screens going black, only to restart seconds later, stuck on a different channel until the footage 'disappeared'. The hair on the back of my neck is prickling with suspicion, forcing sarcasm into my voice.  I am about to reply when my phone starts buzzing. I am relieved when I see that it’s my father. 

“Daddy?” I pick up the phone. 

“Hey, sweetie,” he sounds much less strained as he did when I last spoke with him. 

“What’s going on?” I demand, moving quickly to the corner of the room for some privacy. 

“Nothing. You got to Mr. Stark’s house safely?”

“Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me,” I huff. 

“Watch your tone, young lady,” he chides immediately. I grit my teeth, trying to remember how terrified I had been before he called. It’s very difficult. 

“Yes,  _ sir _ ,” I say exaggeratedly. 

“Better. Are you at Mr. Stark’s house?” he presses. 

“Umm...If by Stark you mean Anthony Stark slash Iron Man, then yes. Is there anything you’d like to explain to me, father dearest?” I counter, sarcasm creeping back into my voice. 

“Good. Thank him for his hospitality and do whatever he or Ms. Potts says that you should do,” he chooses to ignore my question. 

“Wasn’t there anyone else you could have sent me to if Rose’s parents couldn’t bring her home? And now that I’ve mentioned it, why did Rose’s parents cancel-did you know? You guys were practically of one mind with the whole JARVIS picking us up and-” the built-up panic and fear at being in an unknown place without my parents (boarding school is different, trust me. Usually there aren’t adults offering you scotch when you walk through the door) causes my babbling. 

“I’m sorry this is all so short notice,” he cuts across me. 

“Well, that’s a bit of an understatement, isn’t it?” I mumble. 

“I would have liked to give a sooner heads-up, but with the storm coming in and...Well, it’s for the best. I’ve got to go. I love you, Isla.”  _ Click.  _ That’s it. He’s gone. And I’m not being overly clingy or anything-my father wins first prize in the over-protective parent category. Honestly, it’s a miracle I convinced him to let me leave the house for school. And even after three years, he  _ still  _ calls me every Sunday. So his lack of nosiness is what bothers me. Either he trusts Mr. Stark or he hasn’t been given much of a choice. I get the feeling it’s a mix of the two-probably more the latter than the former, judging by Mr. Stark’s *ahem* habits. 

“Was that your father?” Stark asks. 

“As a matter of fact, it was,” I answer, joining the rest of the group. 

“And? Do you have anything to say?” Tony says expectantly. I narrow my eyes. How did he-?

“How do I know? JARVIS. Over the comm,” he points to something in his ear. “You can trust me. And you’re also supposed to thank me, according to your father.”

“Well...thank you?” I say awkwardly. He tapped my phone frequency?

“That was your father?” Rose looks at me pointedly. 

“Yes. He says hello,” I say carefully, gauging the reaction my words elicit from the group. Pepper and Natasha relax, although Male Katniss seems perturbed. Stark sips his scotch. 

“And hello to him too. Your bags are in your rooms-JARVIS will show you to them. Won’t you, JARVIS? JARVIS?” Stark yells. A silver disk about the size of my palm detaches itself from the wall and levitates across the room until it’s in front of me and Rose. 

“Please come this way,” the same cool, pleasantly accented voice that we heard on the plane emits from a speaker embedded in the center of the disk. Peering interestedly at the way in which it moves, I trot after JARVIS. Rose hesitates before following. We leave the living room via another glass staircase.


	5. SPEAR? BANANA? Oh Right. SHIELD

The entire building is a mixture of classical and ultra-modern styles that somehow clash and harmonize at the same time. Glass, steel and marble merge across the many walkways and staircases, with the flashing lights of the city reflecting off of their glossy surfaces.

“Your room,” JARVIS breaks the silence, hovering in front of a steel door. A raised keypad is to the left of the door, at about eye-level. JARVIS attaches to it, the blue light pulsing erratically before detaching from it. 

“Please place the thumb of your right hand onto the space next to the numbers-there,” a needle-like probe extends from JARVIS’ rotors and indicated a clear square next to the flashing numbers. I do as he says, watching a green bar of light scan across the flesh. As I do so, a bright flash emits from the left-hand corner of the steel panel. I blink in surprise. 

“Just a picture, Miss Smith,” JARVIS assures me calmly. “You have now been entered into the system of Stark Tower.” Great. So now my ridiculously unphotogenic face will pop up everytime I try to go anywhere in this place. Rose does the same before JARVIS re-attaches to the keypad. There’s a hiss of machinery as the steel panel slides open. A queen-sized bed with maroon and white sheets sits beneath a loft with a bed of the same size, except with navy instead of maroon. A door to our immediate right leads to a well-lit bathroom. A walk-in closet is next to the door, a full-length mirror in the middle separating Rose’s hanging clothing from mine. A circle carpet spans the distance between the door and the beds. Floor-to ceiling windows dominate the entire left wall, giving us the same spectacular view of NYC we received in the living room. 

“If there is anything not to your liking, please call my name clearly-like so: JARVIS,” he demonstrates. A blue beam of light lances from the middle of the room. The windows darken as a sort of 3D projector surrounds Rose and me. A series of different icons-much like an iPhone-float midair, pulsating like a heartbeat. 

“It can be used either as an interactive interface or by voice-control,” JARVIS explains. “Every news or entertainment channel in the world can be viewed from here. High-speed Internet, surround-sound speakers and access to every movie or tv show or song ever made is on here. The lighting and temperature of your room is customizable as well.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” I say. 

“Very good, Miss Smith-Miss Clavell,” JARVIS sounds pleased as he hovers out of the door. The blue light disappears as the panel hisses closed, leaving Rose and I alone in the room. I walk over to the drawers and pull one out. There’s all of my clothing, neatly folded and color-coordinated. 

“This is so cool,” I mutter. 

“Cool is right,” Rose agrees. “I call the loft, too.”

“Ugh, fine,” I roll my eyes as she climbs the ladder. 

“But weird,” I say decidedly, flopping back on my bed and speaking to the ceiling. “Like, our parents are cool and all-hell I was convinced my mom worked for Japanese intelligence for half of my childhood, but the Avengers? Natasha Romanov-that’s Black Widow. Tony Stark is Iron Man.”

“No kidding,” Rose agrees. “D’you remember May, 2014?”

“Sort of,” I frown. “Wasn’t that with the....The Triskelion. Fall of that intelligence agency that was like the CIA but more bad-ass."

“Yeah. What was it called?” she asks. 

“Uhm...Something strange. Spear? Banana? Oh yeah. Shield. It was Shield,” I say decidedly. “What about it?”

“Didn’t a lot of their files get dumped online?” Rose queries. 

“Maybe? JARVIS,” I call. The blue light surrounds me again. I speak as clearly as I can, enunciating every word. “Give me all of the news on the intelligence agency called SHIELD.”

“SHIELD was an intelligence agency that was taken over by HYDRA from the inside,” JARVIS’ cool voice says. “It is also closely associated with the team known as the Avengers. the Norse god Thor, Dr Banner, Mr Wilson, Captain Rogers, Mr Stark, Agent Romanov and Agent Barton are all part of this team.”

“Wow. Good memory, Rose,” I compliment. 

“Thanks-Buzzfeed post,” she chuckles. I narrow my eyes as a series of documents and files pop up, only to disappear as soon as I raise a hand to enlarge one.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to find the files. 

“What?” Rose wants to know. 

“The files...About SHIELD. They were right there...JARVIS?" But there's no answer. I frown. 

"Odd. What just happened?" I wonder aloud. She shrugs. 

“Well, we can figure this out later. I’m going to change and use the bathroom. Don’t run off,” she tells me. 

“Yes, Mom,” I snort, fiddling around with the projector until I find my way back to the main menu. I select the Netflix icon and, as I’m already signed in as Tony Stark, I flip quickly through the TV channels, noting the appearance of both  _ Friends  _ and  _ Two and a Half Men _ in the search history. Clearly, the Avengers liked old sitcoms. I settle on the newest, chilling episode of  _ Pretty Little Liars _ . 

The suitcase containing my clothing has, of course, been unpacked. I wonder vaguely who put them there-JARVIS acts like Siri, so he (or ‘it’)  _ can _ exist in many places at once, doing a variety of different things, but the notion of JARVIS unpacking my leggings and bras somehow feels wrong. Shuddering slightly, I pull out my battered copy of  _ The Once and Future King  _ and flip to the blue ribbon I use as a bookmark, skimming over the pages while I watch the tv show. Rose emerges from the bathroom minutes later, dressed in sweatpants and a white t-shirt with pink flamingoes on it. She looks considerably more relaxed than she did before. Then again, we had just arrived at a stranger’s house after getting on his strange plane with his strange autopilot/Siri pilot and said stranger just so happened to be Tony Stark who just so happened to know our parents and it was all a very confusing mess that I, for one, was trying not to think too much about. 

“Will they give us dinner do you think?” Rose asks. 

“No, they plan on starving us,” I reply sarcastically, twisting the ribbon around my fingers boredly. 

“Seriously, Isla,” Rose admonishes, joining me on the bed. “I don’t want to be rude-but  _ what _ are you doing? You can’t read a book and watch a tv show at the same time and expect-” 

“It’s called multitasking,” I tell her. “For God’s sake Spencer!” 

“What are you even watching?” Rose wants to know. I open my mouth to answer, but before I can, JARVIS’ voice echoes through the room. 

“Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Stark wishes for me to inform you that he has dinner in the living room. If you would follow the spinning disk that waits outside-the same as the one that I used to show you to your rooms-I can bring you there,” JARVIS says. 

“See? Food,” I swing my legs off the bed and go to the door, clicking off the projector as I walk past. 

“Dinner with the Avengers,” Rose sighs as she follows me. “What next?”


	6. God's Right Hand Man is Drop Dead Gorgeous

When we enter the living room, I realize that the ‘dinner’ JARVIS speaks of consists of Chinese takeout from the Joyous Panda. 

“Hello?” I knock on the side of the sliding door. The red and white boxes of noodles and fried dumplings are sitting on the counter, next to two glasses of champagne. We find our host and his companions squished onto one couch. Two heads, their backs facing Rose and me are sitting on the couch closest to us. In hushed voices, they are discussing something of great dispute, if the frowns and glares exchanged is any sort of indication. 

           A blue screen, similar to the sphere JARVIS showed us in our room is between the two couches. Files, pictures and videos are displayed across it. When they hear my voice, though, everyone jumps and stares at us like guilty children, Natasha shutting down the screen with a wave of her hand. When the silence extends for a sufficiently awkward length of time, the two new people stand up and turn around. One is a man with dark skin, an easy smile and laughing brown eyes. The other is a completely drop-dead gorgeous blue-eyed, blond, muscular-

“Oh my god that’s Captain America. Good lord in heaven I’m standing in the same room as Captain America. Oh my  _ god, _ ” Rose hisses. She was been louder than she intended, though, because Captain America’s golden head snaps around, his eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Peg-Oh,” his face falls momentarily, as if he were expecting someone else. He composes himself and smiles charmingly. 

“Yes, I’m Captain America. Please call me Steve.” He extends a hand to shake with a beet-red Rose. 

“And I’m the Falcon,” the other man says. “But call me Sam.” While the two men are introducing themselves, everyone else manages to cover up their guilty expressions. 

“Dinner, ladies?” Stark gestures at the table. 

“I'm so sorry-I would have ordered better food than Chinese takeout, what with guests over, but Tony-” Pepper starts to say. 

“It’s absolutely fine Ms. Potts,” Rose interrupts, flashing a winning smile. 

“It really is,” I agree. “I’m so sorry if we interrupted anything-it sounded like you guys were discussing something?”

“Discussing something? What? No. We weren’t. Discussing anything, that is. There was nothing to be discussed. Or anything. There wasn’t any discussing. Of something,” Tony says, pure guilt written into every line of his face. Natasha and Pepper let out quiet sighs. I raise my eyebrow. 

“And I thought the Star Spangled Man with a Plan was bad at lying,” Clint mutters. Steve and Tony both shoot him a glare. 

“We’d love to hear about it. If you don’t mind?” I ask, somewhat forcefully. My patience of the secrecy of this whole situation is starting to wear thin. Tony looks at Pepper, who raises an eyebrow as if to say “you did this”. I watch his face cycle through a series of emotions, then harden as if he’s made some sort of decision.

“You’re Walter and Marcus’s kids-anyone who’s sane after living with those two for their entire lives can probably handle a lot worse than what we’re talking about,” he caves. Rose and I chuckle. 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that we  _ are  _ sane, but thanks,” I grin and settle cross-legged beside Natasha. 

“As I’m sure you’ve heard, the intelligence agency called SHIELD fell rather recently to its...antithesis, shall we say, called HYDRA,” Stark explains.

“HYDRA?” Rose queries. I open my mouth, about to list the various conspiracy theories swirling around the organization that I have researched at length, but Natasha beats me to it.

“Evil organization that’s been growing inside of SHIELD. They came out of the shadows in February of last year. Alexander Pierce, with Project Oversight-have you guys heard of it?”

“Well, we have. We would know a lot more, but the files are ridiculously hard to find. Most of them are redacted, or the information’s been blacked out. And when you  _ do  _ try to do anything else, like download it or whatever, you get this awful virus,” I say. Captain America glances at Natasha, who stares pointedly at the floor. 

“Uhm. Well,” Sam starts to say. 

“I mean, if you’re going to put files about some super secret agency on the Internet, don’t change your mind halfway through and take them off,” I say indignantly. I hear Rose breathe in sharply as Natasha and the Captain exchange glances again. 

“The fall of SHIELD is what leads us to our security issue and what we were discussing-or not discussing, as Stark has so eloquently conveyed-beforehand,” Clint says, when no other explanation is given. “The Avengers Initiative was created by SHIELD’s director, Nicholas Fury. He...died soon after HYDRA revealed itself. The redacted, malware-bearing SHIELD files were modified versions of the ones Natasha decided to release to the public.” Clint glares at Natasha, whose green eyes return his gaze with fiery defiance. The atmosphere drops about ten degrees as the two engage in a silent battle of wits. Finally, Clint looks away, defeated. 

“What happened to the original ones?” Rose wants to know. 

“Courtesy of me,” Stark interjects quickly. 

“It was really me,” Pepper retorts. “I was the one who-”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Stark enunciates. “We decided that releasing thousands of classified documents, not exclusively about SHIELD, but other agencies and high-ranking officials, was probably not the best retaliation we could have come up with in response to HYDRA. The world is trying to get back on its feet, and it’s hard enough with HYDRA sleeper agents exposing themselves left and right, blah, blah, blah. SHIELD is being rebuilt, but for the moment, we’re told not to trust anyone but our own people. The Avengers either returned home-like Thor-or are in safe houses-like Dr Banner-and this measly lot you see in front of you have taken advantage of my magnanimous hospitality.” Natasha, Clint and Captain America roll their eyes with the shared air of being used to these jabs while Sam merely chuckles. 

“Fury’s gone, but we still feel driven to accomplish the same task we were set when we first joined SHIELD,” the Captain declares. 

“Here we go again,” Clint mutters. 

“And for the record, I never actually  _ joined  _ SHIELD,” Tony interjects. 

“We have a different enemy than the one that originally brought us-the Avengers-together, but it is no less fearsome. After the battle at the Triskelion, HYDRA was beaten back, but only for the moment. We’ve been trying to get back onto our feet, establish what’s safe, what isn’t, what parts of SHIELD can still be trusted but…" for the first time, the Captain looks uncertain as he trails  off.

“But it’s hard because if you trust the wrong people, you’re dead,” Rose finishes for him, rather darkly for the otherwise sunny girl from New Hampshire. Captain America nods grimly. 

“We’ve just recently found whispers of a HYDRA base-one of the last ones. After the death of Strucker,” he smiles humorlessly. 

“Strucker?” Rose queries. 

“Crazy German scientist,” Clint supplies. “He and his base in Sokovia were...taken care of, and from the intel we’ve gathered, there’s been some infighting at the top of HYDRA’s ranks. As a result, their last hurrah-of a sort-is a base with a compiling of most of their latest technological advancements. We’ve found a lead, but in order to follow it, we need to travel out of the country.”

“Before the storm hits?” I ask. Natasha nods. 

“So we’ll be left here? That’s all right. We can take care of ourselves, and this tower, with JARVIS-” Rose starts to say. 

“Yes, well, a storm might be exactly what HYDRA operatives have been waiting for to break into the tower. And despite Stark Tower having the best security the combined effort of money and genius can get, we've...er....had some slight breaches," Stark admits.

"'Some?'" Natasha scoffs. "There were fifteen Deadpool cosplayers in the science lab last week, and a pack of Siberian monkeys on the 47th level the week before!" 

"Yes, well, we're working on it," Stark shifts uncomfortably. 

"How?" Rose's brows knit together in skepticism. 

"For now, every time we leave to go in a mission, I've installed a series of precautions," Stark says with a tone so filled with a mixture of annoyance and resentment clearly directed at the Captain that I can guess whose idea it was.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a protocol that wipes everything from every system on here,” Tony says simply. “I don’t like it much-there  _ were _ other ways, but Legolas and Capsicle wore me down eventually.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Natasha quips.

“The Tower becomes nothing but a shell, with all the important stuff on Tony’s suit, which he would be wearing,” the Captain explains. 

“Not really my suit, more of JARVIS’ interface that is synced directly to the suit, so that should the suit be damaged-” Stark corrects. 

“Anyways,” Natasha intervenes hastily. “We’ve realized, somewhat belatedly, that while we’re gone on a mission, you’ll have…”

“Targets on your backs,” Clint finishes. 

“How?” I demand. “How does HYDRA know we’re here? And-no offense-but why in God’s name would our parents put us in a position where we  _ would _ be in danger?!”

“Because the rest of the world is relatively oblivious to how much of a shock the takeover of SHIELD was. It rocked the United States to its core, leaving all of its intelligence agencies reeling, as well as ones all across the world. It’s all very hushed up, of course. The last thing we would want is mass panic, and in a world where aliens come to attack from outer space, that’s getting harder and harder. Your parents  _ were _ involved with SHIELD, but cut its ties, as it were. Their involvement has only become...an issue very recently, coinciding with your school’s holiday. They thought it was your best bet to be with us, unknowing that we’d have to leave,” Natasha explains. 

“There seems to be a lot of coincidences,” I say, my eyes narrowed. 

“I TOLD YOU,” Sam yells suddenly. Everyone but Stark half-jumps out of their seats. Sam and Ms. Potts have stayed relatively silent, Sam munching on his fried rice, Pepper delicately nibbling the tip of the strawberry sitting in her champagne, so when he speaks, everyone is surprised.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Wilson,” Clint gasps, shaking out his wrist. Natasha had gripped it so tightly the skin is turning a dark shade of violet. 

“What?” Sam asks indignantly before jabbing his chopsticks in the air in Stark’s direction. 

“I  _ told _ you,” he says accusingly.

“Told me what,” Stark replies coolly. 

“I told you that it’s not coincidence, that HYDRA  _ is  _ pulling our strings, goddammit,” Sam hisses. Captain America passes a hand over tired eyes. 

“I think we’ve forgotten that they do have most of SHIELD’s old intel at their disposal," Natasha says. 

“So the only way to ensure your guys’ safety is to do the unexpected,” Cap states. I realize that this is probably what they were actually discussing so heatedly earlier.

“Which is?” I ask, somewhat flattered that the Avengers themselves are taking our safety into such high consideration.

“To have you guys come with us. To meet the source,” Natasha says simply. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” Pepper breathes, indignant. "I've said  _ no." _

“What?” Stark wants to know. “We’ll need some more, ah, feminine company to please our source, don’t you think?” He winks at us. 

“Anthony Howard Stark they are  _ underage minors _ , for God’s sake,” Pepper throws her hands up in the air in exasperation. Everyone casts their eyes downward, uncomfortable as Tony retorts,

“Then what do you suggest we do? Send them with you to the White House for ten hours of press conferences? I’m sure the whole world would  _ love  _ to find out how we’ve got teenage civilians on our hands while fighting HYDRA.” 

“They look like  _ kids, _ ” Pepper pleads. “They will be HYDRA’s first target for torture-even  _ I  _ know that!”

“Oh, joy,” I mutter, glancing at Rose. She is pale and has stayed silent as the discussion of our relative survival has taken place. 

“Not really,” Natasha says suddenly, looking us up and down with care. 

“Now you’re siding with them?” Pepper exclaims. 

“No, it’s just...A couple of hours in makeup, the right dress for both of them, brief baseline training...Clint and I can keep an eye on them. We should be in a combat-free zone anyways,” Natasha says slowly. 

“Fun. I love kids,” Clint grins, winking at us. I have to bite my tongue to keep from correcting him. I am not a ‘kid’, thank you very much. I am a teenager. Young lady is also acceptable. 

“Right,” Cap says, satisfied. “Let’s get moving.”

“I’ll take them down to the lower training levels. We’ve got a long night ahead of us,” Natasha announces, getting to her feet and briskly washing her hands in the sink by the bar. I look wildly back and forth at the members of the group, taken aback by the quick change of my tenuous circumstance.

“I’ll come with you,” Clint says, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “You two might want to get into some athletic wear or something.” I look at the Captain-since he seems to be the leader of this group-but he’s already in deep conversation with Sam. Pepper and Tony have left the room, bickering softly. I sigh. 

“Into the frying pan,” I say under my breath as Rose and I make our way into our room. 

“Let’s hope we won’t get burned,” Rose replies as we dress quickly into leggings and tank tops. I toss Rose a hair tie as we exit the room, braiding my hair with the empty hand. 


	7. Level 23

Natasha and Clint are waiting outside. Natasha glances over our clothing before nodding her approval. Clint goes ahead of us and has the elevator doors open, the button labeled ‘23’ glowing blue by the time we reach the end of the hallway. We step inside the steel-and-glass box before shooting downwards. 

Natasha produces a silver tablet with the Stark Enterprises logo printed on the back. She occasionally shows Clint the screen, both pairs of eyes scanning whatever information laid out before them in minute detail. He nods or frowns in response to whatever she points to. Rose cocks her head towards me, as if to ask what they are doing. I shrug, looking away to my hands and notice they’re not shaking. I’m not afraid, oddly enough, of this insane turn of events. It’s an adventure, to be certain, but there’s a sense of duty, too. I feel almost obligated to join these people, as if (and this sounds ridiculous) it were Fate nudging me in the direction I’m supposed to take. Well, it’s really more a push off of a cliff than a nudge, but still. 

My first impression of Level 23 of Stark Tower is that it’s really, really bright. White-washed walls stretch into a room the size of a football pitch. Closest to us is a black gymnastics mat. A rope hangs for the ceiling-one that I presume is for climbing. A set of weightlifting contraptions line the middle of the room, with an obstacle course of monkey bars, nets and rings dominating the rest. Natasha notices me eyeing the course and laughs. 

“You’ll have time to check it all out later. For now, Clint will take you on the left side of the mat. Rose, I will take you on the right. Clint, you’ve read all you need to know, teach her as you see fit,” Natasha says. Clint grins impishly and beckons. 

“Read what?” I demand once we are out of Natasha’s earshot. She has brought Rose over to the punching bags and is walking her through what a proper punch looks like. Clint snaps his fingers. 

“Eyes here, Isla,” he snaps his fingers. “Don’t worry about Rose. You’re going to be learning different things with me.” He takes off his bow and quiver and sets them gently on the ground. 

“Okay. So, you’re what, five three, five four?” he asks. I nod. 

“Average for your age group. Weight?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s assume a little below average,” he says quickly. “So you’re light, and fast. We will be at a party with lots of people, so if you’re going to be captured or something, a gun is going to be pressed right about here,” I don’t know where he got the gun, but its barrel is pressing into my lower spine. I tense up instinctively, my shoulders rising, but Clint shoves them downwards. 

“Shoulders relaxed. Don’t let your opponent know you are afraid or startled. Ever. Appear calm,   
he coaches. “What do you do now?” I turn my head to see precisely where the gun is, my heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my blood. I've met this guy two hours ago and here he is shoving a 9mm handgun between my ribs. And he's supposed to be the good guy.

“Good. Look at the threat. Then you’re going to turn on your right heel and step forward, moving your body out of the line of fire,” I comply, wondering vaguely what my fellow classmates are doing. Kicking back in Miami? Shopping on the Rue de Saint Honore in Paris? Not being taught how to avoid getting shot in the back, that's for sure.

“Left hand reaches out to grab my upper arm with the gun, right hand close to your body,” he says. “Hook your left arm around my elbow. Your right arm is bent, and your right elbow comes in to hit my face.” I try to follow his instructions awkwardly, but get an idea of what he wants me to do. 

“Good. Keep your left arm wrapped tight around my elbow so that I can’t move it,” he orders. I tighten my grip. 

“Now, kick my groin with your right knee,” he says. I pause. 

“It’s all right. Not too hard, though,” he cautions. I tentatively raise my knee and touch it to his groin before quickly straightening my leg. 

“It will be with more force when you do it for real, right?” he asks. I nod fervently and he laughs. 

“Now while I, as your opponent, is surprised, force the trigger finger to the side and take the gun,” I do so and immediately turn to face him, both hands on the gun, sight leveled at his chest. It's instinct-easy as breathing even though I've had little to no experience with guns. He puts his hands up. 

“Don’t shoot,” he jokes lightly, pushing the barrel away from his face. 

“You’ve handled a gun before?” He asks, once he puts on the safety.

“Once, at a camp,” I reply. “I’m better with a rifle, though.”

“I’ll take you into weapons later. Try the move again,” he motions for me to turn around and presses the gun into the same place. I practice the move again and again until he is satisfied that I can perform it at a reasonable speed. Then we move to pressure point on the wrists, arms and neck. Clint shows me where the vagus nerve is located, in the upper part of the neck. If proper force is applied, the victim will sustain heavy spasming or unconsciousness, sometimes even death. More self-defense tactics follow, from a palm strike to the nose to escaping from zip ties (which is a lot easier than it looks, oddly enough) to a fist to the solar plexus of the stomach that will stun my opponent. Then Clint makes me run three times around the room. I have a quick jog but can sprint pretty fast, which is what he orders me to do when I finish my three rounds. I am covered in a thin sheen of sweat and panting hard when I rejoin him at the steel water fountain. I gratefully drink from the thin stream of pure water emitting from the spigot. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, gasping for breath.

“Phew. That was...Intense,” I manage to get out. Clint raises an eyebrow. 

“You pick things up quickly. It usually takes a lot longer than two hours to teach most of the initiates at SHIELD, but we made good time,” he says. 

“Two hours?” I say with surprise. “It seemed so much shorter.”

“Time flies,” Clint laughs. Then he looks over at his redheaded companion, who is watching Rose climb the rope I saw hanging down from the ceiling. 

“Hey, Nat. How are you guys on time?”

“Good,” she replies as Rose rings the brass bell at the top (a good thirty-five feet, which is made all the more impressive by the fact that Rose is terrified of heights) and shimmies down to the ground. She follows Natasha to the water fountain to get a drink before turning to face us. 

“I’ll take you guys upstairs to find dresses. We’ll do better briefing on the flight over," she says. “Clint-”

“I  _ know,  _ Tasha,” he says exasperatedly. “It will all be done by the time you’re back.” Natasha nods, satisfied. Then she marches briskly to the elevator and presses the ‘up’ button. In seconds, the steel doors slide open and we get in. 

"Jarvis?" Natasha looks up at the ceiling to address the A.I.

"Yes, Miss Romanov?" The cool voice answers promptly.

"The Costume Shop, please," Natasha requests. 

"With pleasure," Jarvis replies. The elevator zooms upwards abruptly, making me stumble into Rose. 

"God you're sweaty, Isla," Rose admonishes, rubbing her arm in disgust.

"Oh, and you aren't?" I shoot back. Rose glares at me before we both collapse into helpless giggles. Natasha sighs with the air of one used to childish antics, probably due to Stark and Clint, who seem to be the troublemakers and pranksters of the group. 

Clint was a good teacher. The two hours I had had with him had passed quickly, yet my body ached and my mind buzzed with the training he had given me. 


	8. The Costume Shop

There is a muted  _ ding  _ as we reach our destination. As the doors slide open, we see the worried face of Pepper Potts.

"Isla, Rose, come with me, please. Natasha, you too," Ms Potts walks with calm elegance down a brightly lit corridor, her heels clicking on the floor. Natasha, Rose and I quickly follow.

"Jarvis?" She prompts when she reaches the end of the hallway. 

"Right here, madam," comes the reply from the blue wall fixture that casts a glow over the doorway. 

"Please alert Heidi of our arrival. We don't have much time," Pepper tells him.

"Already done, madam. Miss Clavell will take door eight, Miss Smith door five. Miss Romanov is welcome to anything in Section B, as it is in her size," The door opens with a slight hiss after Jarvis finishes speaking. 

"Thank you, Jarvis," Pepper says as she leads us through. 

"After the fall of SHIELD, really ever since the Battle of New York, we've had just about everyone on the team dropping into Stark Tower. That and the fact that I'm hoping to start a clothing line is the reason for all this," Pepper explains. 'All this' is what can only be described as a Macy's on steroids., with the strangest assortment of clothing that I've ever seen. There are three main aisles that run down the length of the floor. On my left are fourteenth century ball gowns hanging side by side with the latest from Valentino and Alexander McQueen. Shoes, also ranging anywhere in style and time periods are in the middle, with scarves and handbags the next aisle over, and the glittering cases of jewelry on my far right.

"Tony calls it the "costume shop", which I guess is a pretty good name for all the stuff we have in here," Pepper laughs, walking swiftly down the left aisle when she stops and looks back at us. Rose and I are gazing around the room in total, slack-jawed amazement. 

"This is incredible," Rose mutters. I nod, wordless.

"C'mon," Natasha says, tilting her head toward an impatient Pepper. Rose and I follow her hurriedly, pushing past a series of racks before reaching a wall of doors, each neatly labeled with a gold number. 

"Door Eight, Rose," Pepper points out the corresponding door, then does the same for me. "Heidi will help you with anything that you need." Rose smiles at me before going through her door. I watch as Pepper and Natasha weave expertly through the racks of dresses until they are out of sight, Pepper speaking softly in a pleading tone to Natasha. Their voices are muffled, but I can guess that Pepper is trying to persuade her to do something other than the current plan. I wait a few moments more, unsure and oddly enough, lonely. It's rare that I get homesick, but I would have liked my sisters to see this place, and for my brother to meet Captain America, his favorite superhero. Sighing, I twist the door handle and step into a white, spherical room with buttery yellow light washing over the walls. Soft jazz music is playing. The wood floor is bare, as are the walls except for two metal hooks, presumably for holding coats or dresses.

"Erm...Hello?" I ask nervously. 

"Hello, Miss Smith," a clearly female voice with an American accent answers. I jump in surprise, still unused to disembodied voices speaking from hidden speakers. 

"Are you alright?" The voice asks, sounding mildly concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine, just...Startled," I reply.

"I am Heidi, created by Mr Stark for all purposes in the Costume Shop. If you would be so kind as to walk through the door on your left to the bathroom. You are welcome to take a shower before your dress will be brought out." A panel slides upwards, and I walk into another circular room, this time covered in white and black streaked marble tiles. An square incut in the wall is to my immediate right, holding what I assume is shampoo, conditioner, body wash and a loofah. A sliding door reveals a toilet and sink directly across from me.

After a momentary pause, I take off my clothing and leave them in a pile outside the door. I stand there, wondering how to turn on the silver shower head that hangs from the ceiling, until my eyes fall on a tablet of the same type as the one Natasha was perusing on our way down to the training room. I tap the black screen tentatively, and it flickers to life. A set of controls appear, allowing me to choose water pressure and temperature. I press the red power button in the top left hand corner and the doors to the bathroom and the adjoining room hiss shut. Steaming water emits from the shower and I step beneath its warmth and sigh gratefully. I do nothing for a time, just standing and letting the water run across my skin. My fingertips and toes are starting to wrinkle when I begin to wash away the sweat and grime from my session with Clint. 

When I shut off the shower and manage to open the panel leading back into the original room, I am relaxed and clean and naked as a needle, water dripping off of my hair and puddling on the hardwood floor. A woman is perched atop a stool with her back turned to me. I give a small yelp and scramble to cover myself up as best I can. 

"I won't turn around," the woman sounds amused. "There's a bathrobe hanging on a hook to your left." I look to my left and find the robe. I tie the belt tightly before walking around to the front of the woman. She has glossy black hair, almond-shaped eyes and clear skin, eerily similar to my old roommate, who was from Seoul. 

"Hello," she smiles. "I'm Clara Park, one of Pepper's assistants. She told me you'll be needing a dress?"

"Um...Yes," I say, unsure of whether or not to tell her why I need a dress. 

"Good. We couldn't make you a new dress on such short notice, but I managed to dig this up in the back of the shop," Clara jerks her head in the direction of what must be the dress. I can't tell, though, because it has an opaque covering over it. 

"Well, let's get on, then?" Clara smiles again. 

“Sit, please,” she says. I do so and before I know it, she’s rubbing primer over my cheeks with cool, experienced fingers. I make a small noise of surprise.

“It’s just makeup, I promise. If there’s anything that hurts-powder gets in your eyes, anything that you’re uncomfortable with, please let me know,” Clara says, pulling a makeup brush from the pocket of her apron. 

“We’re on a bit of a tight schedule, so…” she gestures with the brush in explanation. 

“Uhm...thanks. Yeah. I’m good,” I say. She nods appreciatively, then expertly brushes out my tangled hair and braids it back before scrubbing my face with a series of green and pale blue gels. Skin stinging, I am instructed to close my eyes and feel a soft brush streaking foundation across my face. Powder, bronzer, mascara, eyeshadow and eyeliner soon follow. The room remains silent as Clara performs these tasks with iron precision, and I wonder detachedly how many people she’s done this for. 

“Done,” she says finally. “Sorry for the rush, but Ms Potts stressed on the cramped time schedule.” I stand unsteadily after sitting for what seems like forever, but when I check my watch, I realize it’s only been forty-five minutes. 

“Could I-could I trouble you for a mirror?” I ask awkwardly. Clara pauses at the door and looks back at me with raised eyebrows. 

“You’ll have time to look after we finish. Strip,” she orders, holding up a silk white shift. 

“Uhm...what?” I stutter.

“Would you like me to turn away?” she asks impatiently. 

“Erm...No, it’s no trouble,” I say, flustered as I untie the belt of my bathrobe and pull the shift over my head as quickly as I can. The silk whispers across my skin with delicious coolness, the padding around the bust ridding me of my want for undergarments. 

“Fit’s good?” Clara queries and without waiting for a reply, takes the mysterious dress off the hanger and unzips the cover. I catch a glimpse of cream feathers and gold detailing before my arms are being pushed through a stiff bodice that is pulled tight by thick ribbon lacings. 

“Step in please,” Clara says, rather cryptically. I look up from the bodice to see her holding a pair of white wedges, decorated with gold sequins winking like eyes from the center of miniature white feathers. I slide my feet beneath the feathered straps with consternation, swaying slightly. 

“Are you all right?” Clara inquires. “ Take a couple steps to get used to them.” I tighten the straps around my ankles and straighten, noting how tall the shoes make me. I soon find that despite the added height, the shoes are far more comfortable to move around in than many of the other heels I have worn before. 

“Very nice,” Clara compliments. I smile, trying to discreetly check my watch, feeling that this has gone on for long enough. As if on cue, Clara motions for me to lift one leg and then the other as I awkwardly step into the feathered skirt she holds in her hands. She must have taken it out while I was practicing with my shoes, because the skirt is a surprisingly voluminous thing to miss in a room as bare as this one. It’s feathered, too which I find a little worrying. What sort of a dress was this? 

“Aah,” Clara exhales suddenly, sounding relieved. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

“You’re done,” she grins. 

“Really? Can I see?” I say eagerly, sounding like a toddler on Christmas morning. Clara smiles again, and waves her hand. The room’s lights are muted to a quiet glow and a blue screen extends from the ceiling. The light thickens, becoming almost opaque, before I can see a blurry figure standing in its center. 

“Heidi?” Clara prompts. The figure comes into focus and I gasp. A woman of birdlike beauty peers back at me with an expression of curiosity and interest. 

“I...Is that-Is that me?” I ask incredulously. 

“Ah, you flatter me,” Clara laughs. “But yes, that is you.” I turn back to my reflection and drink in the image I see there. Dark hair falls in a pattern of tiny braids, loops and curls over my shoulder. My eyes shimmer with gold dust, the tips of my eyelashes winking with minute gems. The shape of a wing is painted at the far corner of each eye, with such incredible detail I cannot believe Clara did it by hand. The floor-length skirt is all feathers. They are a rich, cream color, the kind you only see on a swan, and feels deliciously glossy and smooth under my fingers. The exquisitely detailed bodice is laced with a thick ribbon in the back. Beneath the decoration, the bodice is harder than I expect, reinforced by something other than the corset. I wonder vaguely what it is as Clara nestles something into my hair. When I look into the mirror, I see that it’s a gold band that settles across my temple and reflects the light in such a way that it glows, almost like a halo. 

“Wow...This is...This is amazing,” I say finally, overwhelmed nearly to the point of tears.  _ I look like some sort of angel. _ I think to myself _. _ A grin creeps across my face, and the fatigue from the training and my previous worry about Stark Tower and its inhabitants washes away.

“Thank you, Clara.” She smiles one last time. 

“It was my pleasure,” she says. 

“Ms. Park?” Heidi’s polite voice queries. “Ms Romanov is waiting for Miss Smith by the elevator.”

“Right,” Clara offers a hand. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah...I-I think so,” I say, tottering unsteadily even as the words leave my lips. I grab Clara’s hand gratefully, and we make our way to the elevator.


	9. I Play With Weapons (Isla's POV)

Natasha is waiting for us there, just as Heidi had said, dressed in a green, long-skirted ballet tutu. The bodice is emerald velvet with bronze sequins, and the layers of chartreuse tulle of her skirt have the same coppery circles sewn into the fabric. Peeping out from the modest hemline are a pair of moss-green ballet shoes-a surprising choice for a dangerous master assassin I know Natasha must be. Rose is with her and we examine each other’s dresses with minute interest. Dark, beaded satin of form-fitting cut with accents of red and green . 

“That will do fine,” Natasha says, satisfied. “You could pass as my older, but clearly less attractive friends.” 

“Twinkletoes, I’ll go toe-to-toe with you on that,” I laugh. 

“Never thought it’d be good to look older than I am,” Rose says thoughtfully. 

“In terms of exceptions to that rule, I’d say this one takes the cake,” I say wryly. 

“In terms of a lot of exceptions to a lot of rules I’ve made, this one takes all the cakes,” Rose replies. 

“Weapons level,” Natasha informs JARVIS, smiling. 

“Down, down, down,” I intone. 

“To the center of the Earth,” Rose finishes for me. Natasha looks at us. 

“Are you two always like this?” she asks. 

“Like what?” we say defensively in unison. 

“Joined at the hip. Finishing each other’s-” she starts to say. 

“Sandwiches,” I interrupt, unable to help myself. 

“ _ Office  _ reference?” Natasha looks surprised. “I thought that was a bit before your time.”

“Nah,  _ Frozen, _ ” I answer. Rose rolls her eyes. 

“We don’t finish each other’s s-” 

“Sandwiches,” I yell again. Rose glares at me. 

“No, what I mean is-” Natasha is interrupted when the elevator stops. The doors slide open with Clint dressed in a white tie tuxedo standing behind. 

“You ladies sure clean up nice,” he compliments, winking at me. I give him what I think is a sultry pout, and he laughs aloud. 

“Same to you, Barton,” Natasha says, somewhat curtly despite the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. We troop down a darkened corridor into stalls that look out onto a shooting range covered in fake grass. Glasses with blue lenses lie alongside pairs of black leather gloves at each stall. On the back wall is a table, covered in an impressive array of weapons. Wicked-looking knives, curved, straight, serrated and of any size and length are lined neatly on the far left side. On the right, the side closest to us, is a collection of miscellaneous but no less dangerous objects of death; grenades, bottles of pills and liquids with syringes stuck into the nozzle, leather straps I assume are used to attach weapons to the body, fuses and boxes of  _ plastique  _ for bombs, et cetera. 

In case you were wondering how I know all this, the answer is not that I have, in fact, been a part of the Avengers all along and the previous thirty pages have basically been me screwing with you, but that I watch a lot of  _ Jason Bourne.  _ Which is also how I know that in the center of the table are 9mm handguns, revolvers, .38 pistols, and a machine gun. 

“Well this looks fun,” Rose mutters. 

“Indeed,” Clint says. I run my hands lightly over the handles of the guns, only for Natasha to smack my hand away. 

“Don’t. Touch,” she cautions.   
“But I thought we need these for, like, Mission Impossible stuff?” I protest.

“Nope,” Clint answers succinctly. “These are for us.”

“So…?” I ask in confusion. 

“These are for you,” Natasha slides two black briefcases from beneath the table towards me. 

“What are they?” I inquire. 

"Lightsabers, young padawan," Clint jokes.

"Wait, seriously?" Rose’s eyes are as round as saucers. 

"Of course not," I retort. I turn to the two spies, who are grinning impishly. "Right?" 

"Tony wishes. He and Banner spent most of Christmas trying to. It didn't end well, although Tony swears it was because of the port Rhodey gave him as a present,” Clint chuckles at the memory, and I'm struck by how much this group of superheroes is like a family. A huge, dysfunctional, very, very powerful family, but a family all the same. It makes me terribly homesick, and I swallow hard, praying the prickling that starts in my eyes does not turn to tears. 

"These are your...tools, shall we say?" Clint snaps open the briefcases and spins them across the table to face us. The briefcase to my left, the one closest to me, holds two masks. One is gold with tiny white feathers and gems, the other pure white with blue enamel roses blooming on the cheeks. The top of the mask forms a crown, decorated with blue sapphires. The briefcase to my right holds four small knives with leather straps that I assume can attach to various appendages as needed. A tan colored earbud the size of a pea and a white pill completes the array of weaponry.

“Pretty,” I comment. “But I thought there were no weapons.”

“Mmm. Knives are a last resort. One goes on your left thigh, the other in the pocket in the front of your bodices,” Natasha explains. Without hesitation, I hike up my skirt and slip one of the harness contraptions and tighten the straps around my leg, sliding the knife into a protective case so that the blade doesn’t cut my skin. I slide the other knife into my bodice. Rose watches me with apprehension but then follows suit. 

“So what are they?” I indicate the masks. “Not all they appear, I assume.” 

“Let’s hope so. Stark made them a while ago for...another mission,” Natasha’s green eyes turn sad. 

“They’re synced to all of the masks we’re going to wear. At any point in time, we can switch perspectives. Anything you can see, we can see. Anything you say we can hear as well. You can communicate directly with us by pressing on the outer corner of your right eye,” Clint continues for her. 

“Dresses, masks and spies, oh my,” I say as I tie the mask around my head.  The eyeholes have blue screens that take a retina scan and I blink involuntarily as the light shines into my eyes.

“Confirmed. Smith, Isla,” JARVIS’ voice says. 

“Switch to POV Clavell, Rose,” I tell the mask, noticing it as one of the options displayed on the screens in front of my eyes. Immediately, I see my reflection from Rose’s eyes and giggle elatedly. Clint and Natasha tie their masks (Natasha’s gold and green, Clint’s a simple black and white) and we stand there for a moment, switching mask views and making faces at one another, messing around with the miniature interfaces Stark has installed until we get the hang of it. And not a moment too soon, either, because JARVIS’ voice, clearly annoyed despite him (or really, it) being an AI, cuts across our laughing.

“Mr Stark has requested your-” he starts to say. 

“Legolas, Annie, if you do not get your asses over to the Quinjet in the next fifteen seconds, I will-No, no,  _ no _ . Stripes, stop playing with your hair,” Stark’s voice overrides JARVIS’ over the comms. I wince in surprise-it’s as if Stark is speaking right next to me. 

“C’mon then,” Natasha says. “We should get going.” Just as she finishes speaking, the elevator opens. Clearly, JARVIS is as annoyed with his creator as he sounds. 

“Stark, I am not wearing this ridiculous hair gel,” Captain America’s voice says as we zip upwards.  

“Oh even his  _ voice  _ sounds patriotic,” I pretend to swoon. It’s hard to tell because of her mask, but Rose glares at me. 

“It’s Eau d’Homme, don’t argue with me on this one,” Stark says placatingly. 

“‘Water of Man’?” I translate. Natasha and Clint look at each other and crack two identical grins. 

“Yeaaah, about that,” Natasha says. 

“We told him it’s all the rage in Paris,” Clint sniggers. 

“It’s a good thing he doesn’t know basic French,” Rose snorts. 

“Flattery is like cologne water; to be smelt, not swallowed,” Clint advises us sagely. 

“Wise words,” I laugh. 

“More I have, young Padawan,” Clint croaks in a ridiculous impression of the elderly Jedi Master from the  _ Star Wars  _ series. 

“Please, continue,” I say, waving my hand expansively. Unfortunately, Clint doesn’t get to reply. We jerk to a stop and step out onto the same windy tarmac Rose and I had arrived on just hours ago. I lift my skirt up so that I can walk properly, noting that while Rose has considerably lower heels (due to her already-formidable height), she does the same so as to avoid mishap. 

When we reach the aircraft, I see that instead of a helicopter, a plane-fighter-jet hybrid sits waiting on the landing pad, the entry gate down. Inside, Cap and Stark are dressed in the same level of formality as Clint, except that Stark has a magenta bow tie instead of white silk. The two men are gesticulating wildly and shouting at each other. 

“Boys, boys, calm down. There’s enough Clint Barton to go around,” the snarky archer intervenes. The Captain and Iron Man turn, and even with only the dimmed airplane lights, Steve Rogers looks as golden as ever. No, that isn’t drool, that’s...nevermind. Anyways, as Rose and I balance our way up the stairs, I have the good grace to slip just as the floor flattens out. Narrowly missing the corner of a table glowing with a series of holographic images, I brace myself for the impact when I hit the ground. To my surprise, a steady and entirely swoon-worthily muscled arm catches me around the waist and pulls me gently upright. I would like to say that when I find myself gazing into the kind blue eyes of Captain America, I am able to keep my cool and say something witty. Unfortunately, my tongue and brain have two entirely different ideas that both try to accomplish simultaneously. What ends up happening is me stuttering and blushing and  _ not _ stepping away but in fact remaining in that awkwardly intimate position. 

“Uhm...Thanks,” I gasp out. A flash of white teeth nearly blind me as I hear a deep voice say,

“Of course, ma’am. Wouldn’t want that dress to rip.”  _ I have died and gone to heaven,  _ I think to myself.  _ Steve Rogers has just called me ‘ma’am’. Oh, be still my beating heart.  _

“Nice catch, Spangles,” Stark says sarcastically. The Captain releases me and inclines his head graciously. 

“With your permission, Mr Stark, we must commence with takeoff in order to remain on schedule,” JARVIS says. 

“All good. Bosnia here we come,” Stark replies.


	10. I Go Dancing (Rose's POV)

As soon as we lift off the ground, everyone disperses into various areas of the Quinjet. Tony stays in the cockpit, muttering to JARVIS and playing with the matching silver bracelets on each wrist. Clint is polishing his arrows and his bow (seriously I have no idea what this guy did other than play with his weapon. I mean it’s cool, and all, but really?) while Natasha and the Captain stand by the holo-table, scrolling files and examining floor plans for what can only be the party we are to attend. Isla sits in a small metal alcove, toying with the knife Natasha had her put in her bodice. Her eyes are half-closed, and to someone who doesn’t know her very well, it would appear as though she were almost asleep. But I know better, and I know that she’s watching the Captain and Natasha with her full attention. My speculations are further proved correct when, under the pretense of picking up the knife I had seen her let slip out of her fingers on purpose, she leans forward and her eyes flick upwards, quickly scanning the text Natasha and Mr. Rogers are poring over. So concentrated on her task is she that she ends up scraping her fingertip on the sharp blade. She lets out a muted hiss of pain and straightens, sucking her finger. She’s too late, though, because a bead of scarlet blood drops onto the milk-white feathers of her dress. 

“A bad omen,” I say, mock-seriously. 

“Who are you, Professor Trelawney now?” she retorts. 

“What I have seen in the tea leaves would haunt all your deepest nightmares,” I tell her, deepening my voice and widening my eyes. 

“What are you guys talking about?” I whirl and come nose-to-nose with the Captain. 

“I seem to be getting into the awful habit of being in these, ah, close-proximity positions with beautiful women,” he breathes. I nearly faint. 

“Women? Girls. They are  _ girls _ . Stay away from the ninety-year-old stalker you two,” Natasha tuts, shaking a finger at Mr. Rogers who flushes. 

“It’s alright,” I squeak. 

“We were talking about the  _ fascinating _ subject of tea leaves,” Isla pipes up, somehow managing to keep a straight face even as I collapse into giggles. “And how the price of tea leaves has really just gone up--inflation, yknow.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” the Captain says seriously, settling himself next to her. “The price of coffee alone.” He shakes his head. 

“Mm, I agree, Mr Rogers,” Isla says, her lips trembling as she tries not to laugh. “The price of one’s future being told--oh it’s too much.” The Captain looks confused, but smiles politely, if a little vaguely. 

“The price for a dance, however,” Mr Rogers says suddenly, and I stop laughing immediately. “I hope it hasn’t changed since I was young.” Was he talking to me?  _ Was he talking to me?  _ I look around frantically, sure that he was addressing Isla. But the little devil covered in feathers is looking at me expectantly with eyes filled with derisive laughter. 

“Uhm...Thanks, but I...I can’t dance,” I stammer. 

“I can’t, either,” he assures me. “I was so afraid...afraid of stepping on my partner’s toes. But I figured we could learn together?” He scratches the back of his head and looks at me with such uncertainty my knees turn to jelly and I am extremely grateful that I’m sitting down. Isla leans forward. 

“If Rose isn’t willing, I am,” she says, winking. Where the hell she gets that sort of confidence, I have no idea. But the Captain smiles vacantly at her before turning to me, his head tilted to one side and his hand gallantly extended. I can hear Isla sniff in disdain, and I feel strangely happy that Rogers dismissed her so quickly. God knows why-of the two of us, Isla, despite wearing her insanity like a badge of honor on her sleeve, was always the one to have boys falling at her feet. I was more of the boys’ friends, not really a romantic interest. I know Isla wouldn’t begrudge me or be particularly jealous, and she’d probably find some billionaire by the end of the night and be married to him by the next morning, but I reveled in this small moment of having America’s Golden Boy preferring me over her. So I get to my feet and take his hand, praying that mine isn’t clammy or sweaty although God knows I feel both. 

“So I’m going to leave now. Natasha, what’cha doing?” Clearly over Rogers’ rejection, Isla navigates her way with an ease that tells me that perhaps her ‘fall’ on the landing pad had been more on purpose rather than on accident. She leans her elbows on the table and I see her eyes move at lightning speed as she reads as much of the document Natasha was looking at before the redhead powers down the table. I see her face Isla with a rather serious expression as the Captain leads me to the back part of the aircraft. 

“JARVIS?” he asks. “Something slow, please.” The AI complies, and the smooth, slightly nostalgic notes of Frank Sinatra’s “I’ll Never Smile Again” fills the air. The Captain jolts, his eyes wide and his back ramrod straight. 

“Are you okay?” I ask. 

“What? Oh, no...Yes, I’m fine. Odd song choice,” he smiles and slips his arm around my waist, but I can see him forcing whatever memory the song brought back deep into his mind. 

“Oh?” I ask, hoping I can prompt him into telling me what it was. 

“When I was in the war and I got frozen...I..I had a date,” he tells me, clasping my right hand with his and stepping forwards. I respond, stepping back and then to the right, then forward in a simple box-step pattern of a waltz. I silently thank my lucky stars that I had gone to this ridiculous ballroom-dancing camp last summer at the behest of my grandmother. She was convinced that I’d end up marrying into English royalty and would need to know such “ladylike activities”. I told her I’d leave that to Princess Kate, but she didn’t listen.  

“Liar,” he laughs as we dance with acceptable rhythm and form. “You _do_ know how to dance.”  
“I didn’t say I didn’t know, just that I couldn’t. And I can’t-not well, anyways,” I say, hoping I don’t come across as one fishing for compliments. “And you’re just as much of a dancer as I am.” He chuckles. 

“Thanks,” he says, spinning me. I gasp in surprise and he laughs again, a big booming sound that reminds me of sunshine and tumbling stones and-God, I sound worse than Bella Swan in Stephanie Meyer’s  _ Twilight  _ series. I’ve got to get a grip. 

“Was the date you had Peggy Carter?” I ask presently, when we resume our box-step at a slightly faster pace. 

“Yes. How did you know?” he inquires, spinning me with such nonchalance it feels as if we’d been dancing together for years. 

“I’ve followed the whole superhero scene since I was six or seven. I had two older brothers, so the comics that were lying around the house were some of the first things I’d learned to read. And then on the news, tv shows...I loved the idea of the X-Men for the longest time. Tried to electrocute myself. My mum was desperate for a different set of role models, and then I came across mention of Peggy Carter. I’m British, too, you see. I thought she was the coolest person-still do, actually. The new tv show,  _ Agent Carter  _ is excellent,” I babble unwittingly, completely oblivious to the fact that the Captain’s stopped dancing. When I finally stop my gushing over Ms Carter, he’s looking at me with a sad sort of smile on his face. I remember vaguely what I’d read about the formidable founder of SHIELD, and remembered that she had Alzheimer’s. Which meant….

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I gasp. “I didn’t mean to bring it up. She probably doesn’t even remember you.” 

“Not really, no,” he sighs, his eyes downcast. I mentally kick myself. 

“But don’t worry,” he touches my arm gently and while his eyes reflect oddly off of the lights, his smile has brightened. “She’s a good friend, but we missed our date. In another world, perhaps. But it doesn’t make sense to cling to a reality that no longer exists.” We resume dancing in a companionable and well-maintained silence, throwing in a  _ chasse  _ or an  _ impetus _ turn to mix it up a bit, our two minds melding into one as we sweep across the Quinjet metal floor. 

God be praised, I managed not to step on his toes for the most part. I’m tall for my age (practically dwarfing Isla if she’s wearing flat shoes, which she rarely does for this precise reason) and with the added heels, am of a height with the supersoldier, so that makes it easier. But when I stumble on a reverse turn, we end up smacking our heads together with a painful  _ crack.  _ We break apart, rubbing bruised brows ruefully. 

“I think that’s our cue to take a break,” the Captain says, his voice taking on an odd accent that I realize must be a 1940’s Brooklyn tone, that would sound nasally coming from anyone else, but strangely suits him well. “But it was swell to dance with you.”

“Swell? What does that mean, Captain?” I tease, surprised at my own boldness. 

“You young whippersnappers,” he shakes a finger at me. “And it’s Steve. Please, call me Steve.” I smile. 

“Okay. Thank you for the dance, Steve,” I say, curtseying. He bows and is straightening when Clint and Isla stroll over, arm in arm and masked. I wonder at their closeness, knowing that Natasha and Clint definitely had something going on. 

I’m proud to say that I had developed a bond with the Black Widow during our training session, and Isla had undoubtedly done the same with Clint. I’d heard all sorts of rumors of how many hits Clint and Natasha had carried out, whispers of how Natasha was made to be the lethal assassin she was, but especially after meeting her, I didn’t pay it much mind. She seemed kind enough-hard and dangerous, certainly, but not if unprovoked. I was sure Clint was as charming as could be, as well as being very good at the same profession Natasha so excelled in, and the sarcastic banter he was sure to have shared with Isla while they trained probably didn’t help. I hoped Isla knew what she was doing. 

“And so we find the ninety-year-old virgin hitting on the teenage princess,” Clint announces. 

“Barton,” Steve sighs resignedly. 

“Rogers,” Clint mimics in a singsong voice. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks. 

“Didn’t realize we’d walked in on something private,” Isla smirks at me and I roll my eyes, sticking my tongue at her when Steve turns to Clint. 

“Seriously, Barton. What’s wrong?”

“We’re touching down in five. Masks on,” Clint snaps his fingers in a hurrying motion. Steve looks at me and smiles apologetically as if to say  _ Sorry about him.  _ I shrug. 

“I can see what’s happening,” Isla declares. 

“What?” Clint inquires. 

“And they don’t have a clue,” Isla grins. I groan inwardly. Clint pauses for a moment before catching the reference. 

“Who?” he plays along. 

“They’ll fall in love,” Isla shouts, throwing her arms outward. Steve stares at her in barely-concealed bewilderment.

“And here’s the bottom line,” Clint shrieks, horrendously off-pitch. 

“Our trio’s down to two,” Isla finishes. I sigh, both in annoyance and relief as the two walk away, singing raucously the lyrics to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?”

“Masks on, then,” I hear Steve say. I turn and see him wearing a mask that covers the left half of his face in silver, the halved lips twisted into a soundless wail. I shiver involuntarily as he smiles, giving him a chilling lopsided appearance. 

“A bit heavy for a masquerade ball, don’t you think?” I ask. 

“All masks are a reflection of oneself,” he returns cryptically, and I wonder at what he could possibly mean. The mask depicted half of him as some sort of tortured soul, frozen in a mixture of grief and rage. What went on beneath Captain America’s smooth surface that would make him one of the damned? 

“My lady,” he gives another bow as I tie the silk ribbon of my mask behind my head. “Are you ready for a night in Bosnia?”  _ One I will never forget, I’m sure _ , I think to myself as we rejoin the rest of the Avengers and Isla in the main room of the Quinjet and buckle in for landing.


	11. Snafu (Rose's POV)

“Nat and Clint are in the living room with the Vice-President of Chile,” Tony Stark’s voice informs me. 

“So I see. They ditched me after we got rid of that horrible French diplomat,” my eyes skim across the richly decorated room until they find Clint’s cropped blond hair and Nataha’s green dress. 

“Erm...When you say ‘get rid of’, do you mean  _ get rid of-  _ get rid of?” Isla’s voice asks. 

“Yep. Body’s in the dumpster behind the drugstore six miles off the main highway. Right, Clint?” Natasha answers calmly. 

“Yes, dear? Oh yeah. Dumpster. Body,” Clint affirms. 

“Okay, you guys are joking right?” Isla mutters. “There’s no way you s could kill a man and hide the body in under half an hour.”

“Miss Smith,” Tony chastises. “You seem to have forgotten something.”

“What is that?” she asks sarcastically. 

“We’re the Avengers,” Clint says. I can hear Isla scoff, then the rustling of her feathered skirt. 

“Remind me again why we’re wearing ball gowns,” I hear her say. 

“Oh, please. You know you’ve always wanted to prance around in crinolines and corsets,” I return, navigating my way through a particularly tricky configuration of chairs and tables. 

“Hm. Maybe,” Isla admits. “But back to our previous point, Clintasha, did you  _ actually  _ kill a man?”

“We’ve done worse, you know,” Natasha reminds her. 

“‘Course we have-wait,  _ what  _ did you call us?” Clint demands. 

“Clintasha. It’s like a mix of your guys’ names,” Isla answers. I sigh loudly, which garners the disdainful attention of a group of elderly ladies sitting on my right. Ever-smiling masks leer at me as they turn in my direction, and I shudder. 

“What’s wrong, Rose?” Steve’s voice asks concernedly. 

“Wha-Oh, nothing. Just that once Isla’s started with the ship-naming, there’s no end in sight,” I say, accepting a mini hamburger presented to me by a waiter dressed entirely in silver. 

Similarly dressed waiters glide through the high-ceilinged room, offering refreshments to the guests. Half of the floor is taken up by round tables with white tablecloths stamped with the crest of the President of Bosnia, the other half of twirling dresses and the light from the glass chandeliers reflecting off of the masks of the dancers. Everyone here has some sort of theme or animal they are dressed as, and since most of the guests are the top one percent of Sarajevo aristocracy, this means excessively elaborate costumes that make even Isla’s dress look normal. 

Steve and I are weaving our way through the tables, trying to find our contact. Apparently, he’s supposed to be dressed as Robin Hood, but two hours have already passed with no luck. Natasha, Clint, Tony and Isla are doing the same amongst the dancing couples. 

“Found him yet?” I look up and see that creepy mask of Steve’s and snarl reflexively, my hand straying to my bodice where my knife is kept. 

“Woah. You okay?” he asks, hands upraised in defense.

“Yeah, fine. Just a bit uptight,” I grimace, surprised at my own twitchiness. 

“So I see,” he laughs. “But we’re looking out for you guys.”

“All righty, so if the creepy old man will step away from the young lady, we might be able to get something done,” Tony snarks over the comms. Steve’s eyes darken in annoyance, and I involuntarily take a step back.

“Got him,” Clint says casually.

“Got  _ what?  _ Oh. Where?” Isla’s voice chirps. 

“Fourth table from the far right corner. Tux and margarita next to the blonde with the green dress,” Clint supplies. 

“Don’t look now, but I’m going over,” Natasha informs us. I see a flash of red hair bobbing amongst the crowd as she makes her way behind the stage of musicians. 

“Right behind you, Tash,” Clint says. 

“Ah, the ship,” Isla murmurs. 

“You guys are so weird,” Tony comments. 

“Yet we’re hanging out with the Avengers. Not a bad place to b-” there’s a squeal of high-pitched static and Isla’s voice cuts out. I’ve ripped my mask off as the sound pierces my ears, and I notice that Steve has too. We look at each other concernedly before turning back to our masks. Steve grabs my arm and sits me down, leaning close enough that we can compare masks. The interface on his has turned black, but mine remains on. 

“Hello?” I speak into the mask. “Is anyone on comms? Hello? Steve’s just died, and Isla’s gone.”

“I know,” Natasha says. “I’m almost to the source. Clint’s behind me, but his mask’s also out. Steve, take Rose-” Another squeal and the line goes flat. I look around quickly, but no one seems to have noticed the noises. I look at Steve.

“Stark?” He asks the mask. “Stark, do you copy?” No answer. 

“Stark’s tech is good. We wouldn’t just lose comms for nothing,” Steve says worriedly. 

“What are we going to do?” I ask, trying desperately to keep the panic out of my voice. I can hear my breath coming out too fast and I grip the edge of the table, fighting to keep my heart rate steady. 

“Rose? Rose,” Steve is saying forcefully. I don’t realize that I’m shaking until I look up. 

“I know this is unexpected, but I’m going to have to trust you to get out of this, okay?” Steve says, slowly and clearly as if talking to a small child. I take a couple more stedaying breaths before I can manage to listen to his following instructions without falling to pieces. 

“I want you to head back to the plane. Lock it down-there’s a button right next to the door- and wait there,” he orders.  

“O-okay,” I stutter. 

“Exit’s to your left. Plane is on-”

“The helipad, I’ve got it,” I nod. 

“Good. Then go. Quickly,” he says, flashing me a quick, comforting smile to take the urgency out of his voice. I give a terribly shaky one in return before starting to pick my way around the tables. 

“Oh, Steve?” He turns around, eyebrow raised. 

“Try to find Isla,” I tell him. He nods curtly before disappearing into the crowd. I take a deep breath and continue through the tables, muttering apologies as I squeeze past the party guests.

Finally, I reach one of the side doors and press against the metal door handle. The door opens with the slightest of creaks, and I step into a stairwell. After a moment’s consideration, I kick off my heels and hold them in one hand. I run a finger across the floor plan, inconveniently written in Czech. I try to puzzle the diagram of the fire escape plan before giving up and climbing the stairs as far as I can go, reaching the final set of steps sweaty and gasping. Opening the door at the top of the stairwell I am relieved to find myself on the roof. 

The Quinjet is hidden behind the great dome that is the ceiling of the ballroom, so after some shuffling and squinting, I orient myself and set off across the roof tiles. Most of the roof is flat, but some parts have gables or turrets that I have to scramble over, cursing my dress. All the while, I feel hot guilt for hightailing it out of the Opera House and leaving my comrades behind. It weighs me down, mixing with my fear to make a cement that sits uncomfortably in my stomach. I don’t know where I’m going-not really. How did I end up in Bosnia, thousands of miles away from home? And where was Isla? Why had the comms cut out? What had gone wrong?


	12. Capture (Isla's POV)

I was watching Rose and Steve talk, wondering how much Clint would be willing to bet on the length of time it would take for them to kiss. Natasha had tasked me with circling the dance floor, checking for the contact’s security. We had been on the Quinjet, then, while Rose and Steve were doing God knew what. I was bored, messing around with the holographic table when she had pulled me aside.    
“Men with strange bulges in their back pockets are the ones you want to look out for,” she told me, with the same nonchalance as one would discuss the weather. 

“I’m sorry what?” I frowned my surprise at her unexpected presence. 

“Security. This isn’t daycare or some party, whatever Stark makes it sound like,” Natasha stated, so bluntly I felt a sting of indignance. 

“I-I know,” I started to say. 

“No, you don’t,” Natasha disagreed, with such certainty I fell silent. 

“You don’t know,” she repeated. “And if it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here.”

“But I thought you said-” I protested.

“It wasn’t up to me,” Natasha said coldly. “You don’t have the proper training, but you’re here. I can’t be expected to watch you and make contact with our source, which we need for-it doesn’t matter. Watch for security, and try not to get in the way.” I was torn between bursting into tears and yelling at her. Who was she to treat me like a child? This situation was as crazy as it gets, but here I was, handling it with what I thought was grace and calm. But I desperately wanted Natasha’s approval. Frankly, I didn’t understand why she took such a clear disliking to me. She was polite enough when we’d met, but relatively cold. She liked Rose-why didn’t she like me?  _ And that’s the sort of whining that she probably dislikes, _ I chided myself _.  _

“Security sounds good,” I smiled. 

“Say that again,” Natasha said. 

“What?”

“Say that again.”

“Security sounds good?”

“No. More conviction,” Natasha’s eyes found mine and I was abruptly reminded of my violin teacher I had when I was twelve. She was a short woman with spiky hair and bright green eyes and I was terrified of her. The same sort of inexhaustible energy flowed from Natasha, the same intense ferocity, and my reaction to her, in that moment, was also the same.

“S-security sounds good.”

“Better. Slightly,” Natasha nodded. “I might believe you.” She turned to go, presumably toward the cockpit. 

“Really? Yeah, thanks,” I called after her. My pride was wounded, and compounded with my fear, I felt a hard edge coming into my voice. “What about Rose, huh? I don’t see  _ you _ telling her this.” Natasha stopped in her tracks. Slowly, she turned around again. 

“Rose...It doesn’t matter to me what Rose does. She has my approval. And my trust. She’s earned that-” Natasha began. 

“By doing what?” I exclaimed. 

“I thought you were her friend,” Natasha’s eyes narrowed. I opened my mouth to try and explain myself, then fell silent. Natasha leaned close to me and I involuntarily recoiled. It was as if her eyes were burning through my very soul, a bright light lancing into the darkest parts of my mind. I swallowed hard, trying to fight the tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I don’t cry a lot, not easily or usually. It’s a weakness, crying, and I don’t think Natasha’s one for cowards, but I couldn’t help myself.  _ She’s not much for anything else about me, either, _ I thought bitterly. 

“I’ll keep what you said in mind, thanks,” I amended quietly. Natasha regarded me for a moment before nodding. 

“Good.”

“Hello my dear,” A hand smacking my bottom yanks me back to the present. 

“Hey!” I turn around to face my offender. An old man with a wispy goatee and a maroon smoking jacket winks at me. I shudder. 

“Would you like to dance?” he asks, Slavic accent thick in a voice a deep as a bullfrog’s.  

“No, I’m fine,” I say, enunciating as clearly as I can. 

“Oh, come now,” he wheedles. “It will be most enjoyable-I can assure you of that.” I open my mouth to tell him to shove off when Tony says in my ear,

“That’s the President of Bosnia’s younger brother,” I hear Tony’s voice. “Play nice, firecracker.”

“Of course,” I say, both to the old man and to Tony, smiling so sweetly my teeth hurt. Infinitely glad that I had learned ballroom dancing from my absolutely insane aunt from Tennessee, I place my hands in the proper position on his shoulder and in his hand. 

“So, you are-”

“Layla McDermott,” I supply quickly. 

“Weird name,” Tony comments over the comms. 

“Only name I could think of,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. 

“Seriously?”

“Shut up, Tony,” I say it louder than I intended and the old man gives me an odd look. 

“I mean, it’s lovely to meet you,” I backtrack awkwardly. 

“It is lovely to meet  _ you _ , Miss McDermott,” the man wheezes. He is a foot shorter than me, and I can see the baseball-sized bald patch on the top of his head, speckled with age spots. Ew. 

“The same to you,” I swallow my disgust with a bright smile. 

“I have never seen you before,” the man declares. “But I would like to take you back with me, my beautiful swan.” I’m about to correct him, tell him that it’s not a swan, it’s an angel, when I notice a man weaving through the crowd. He has broad shoulders and the telltale bulge Natasha mentioned on his right hip. I glance around and find two more giveaway bumps on two more men. All three are headed towards the far side of the room, where Nat and the contact are. 

“Natasha,” I tap my comm to make sure it’s on. A high-pitched static squeal emits from the device, causing me to rip it from my ear. Wincing, I turn back to the man. 

“I’ve got to go,” I gasp. 

“What a shame,” the man mutters to himself, before pottering away into the crowd of dancing couples. I examine the now-smoking comm, suspicion prickling down my spine. There is something wrong, but I can’t think what. I begin to follow the men as discreetly as I can when my arm is violently twisted behind my back. 

“ _ I mají jeden z nich _ ,” a man growls. I tense when I feel the barrel of a gun pressing into the back of my corset. I start to panic, my brain buzzing with fear when I hear Clint’s voice in my mind,  _ left hand grips the upper elbow. Right hand close to the body to grab the gun. All in one movement.  _ And to my shock, muscle memory kicks in and I perform the move perfectly. Before my brain can process what’s going on, the man’s firearm (a 9mm pistol with a silencer attaches to the end) is in my hand. The dancing couples around me remain oblivious, which, considering the alternatives, is probably best. I kick the man hard in the groin, clapping a hand around his mouth to stop him from crying out. He sinks to the floor, eyes burning with hatred but the pain too paralyzing for him to move. Not wanting to stick around until he recovers, I melt into the crowd, ducking behind couples until I’m sure I’ve lost him. I begin to congratulate myself and formulate a plan on how to find the rest of the Avengers when a gun with a similar silencer attached to the end is pressed to my midriff. Before I can react, the gun fires. It’s a muted silence, a short burst of released air. My body jerks back from the force of the bullet. I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. Is this how it feels like to die? Utterly painless? No, there is no way. I would be dead now, unless...I remember how stiff the corset had been, stiffer than the linen cloth it appeared to be made of. A single word comes to mind-Kevlar. Body armor. Well hurray for that. I’m not dead.  _ Probably just bruised ribs _ , I conclude. I turn to face my attacker, certain that he would be shocked by my survival, but there’s no one there. Eyes narrowing and heart starting to pound again, I turn in a slow circle, scanning the crowd for potential threats. Just as I’m starting to relax, an arm wraps around my waist. I try to struggle, but the arm tightens around my ribs and I almost cry out in pain.

“Start walking. Now,” A voice growls into my ear. Despite the shock, I can feel adrenaline pumping through my veins and everything in my body kicking into high gear. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet and gasp in mock surprise, quickly analyzing the voice. It’s male, probably early twenties. His English is good, but the accent isn’t traceable. American, certainly, but without a nasal Maine or Southern twang. I clutch at my necklace, my fingers splayed across my chest in an attempt to feign fear. I slip my fingers down my bodice. I feel the hilt of my dagger, if I could just-

“Don’t try to get the knife you have hidden in your bodice, or the one strapped to your thigh. I just saved your life. Funny way to thank me. And don’t try to contact your friends. The comms are knocked out,” the voice says calmly. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stall, searching my mind for a way out. “My Daddy just told me to come to this stupid party. What about a knife? I don’t have knives. Look, if you don’t stop, I’m going to call my bodyguard.” The voice laughs. It’s an odd sound, grating and wheezy, as if it’s something that the speaker hasn’t done in a while. 

“If I were an idiot, maybe I’d believe that. Don’t play with me, girl. Your father isn’t anywhere near here. You are here with Captain Rogers. I suggest you come with me if you want to stay alive,” he says. 

“And if I were an idiot, maybe I’d come with you,” I bluster. 

“I don’t have time for this. Your life is in danger, and I’m going to save it, but not if it causes me any more trouble than it already has,” the voice states. 

“Oh, thanks,” I retort sarcastically. “My savior-who are you, by the way? I can’t even see your face!” I try to face him, but his grip on my elbow tightens, bending the arm across my back. It hurts like hell, his fingers leaving red streak marks on the skin. 

“You’re not going to scream, either,” the voice says. 

“I might,” I snarl. My curiosity over my new companion piqued, I try my best to turn around, but his iron grasp remains its same tenacity. 

“You won’t. You would have done so already. You are young and foolish, certainly, but not stupid enough to scream. Those men you were attempting to follow, they would kill you without a moment’s hesitation,” the man says. I grit my teeth. 

“Thanks, young and foolish am I? You’re quite the charmer.”

“Your sarcasm gives you away. You are frightened. Scared, even. Judging by your gait, you cannot be more than twenty.”

“I’ve got you there, Sherlock,” I mutter. 

“Your comms are cut out, so you cannot call your friends. You will have to trust me,” the man continues. 

“You don’t know that,” I snap, curling my hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking. 

“I do. I repeat, if you do not come with me, you will die,” he sounds annoyed. 

“Mm, well, it’s either running off with a creepy guy who has my arm pinned to my back, or sticking it out with those lovely gentlemen over there,” I reply. 

“I’m saving your life. Where I come from, that’s a called a favor,” he says tightly. 

“Where you come from?” the way he said it, I was certain I’d heard the phrase, the inflection, the accent before, but I couldn’t place it. 

“I have no time for your remarks. We must go,” if it’s possible, the grip on my arm tightens even more and he starts steering me towards the main door. 

“That’s your master plan?” I demand, still trying to turn around. 

“What?”

“The main door?”

“When you are a trained assassin by the Sov-” he stops mid-sentence when he realizes his mistake. I silently high-five myself. Creepy kidnapper guy = 0, Isla Smith, femme fatale = 1. 

“When you’re a what now?” I ask sweetly. 

“Take my arm,” he answers brusquely, stepping forward. I slip my arm through his left arm, and am surprised to feel that his limb is of a hard, unyielding substance that is most definitely not human flesh and blood. A prosthetic arm, okay, maybe he was a war vet. 

“Other arm,” he says, removing the appendage in question from my side and replacing it with his right. As he does so, I hear a noise, so faint I almost think I imagined it; a mechanical whir and then the faintest flash of metal when he tucks his left hand into his pocket, the skin of his wrist showing from the hem of the glove. Except I’m pretty sure it isn’t skin, or even plastic (which, presumably, are what most prosthetics are made of). Instead, it’s metal. So now my kidnapper has a metal arm. Peachy.

I glance surreptitiously through the eyeholes of my mask at the dark figure beside me. His features are hidden beneath his own black satin mask, dark hair tied in a small bun at the nape of his neck. I was never much into man-buns, but  _ darn.  _ Needless to say, I felt my fear dissipate as teenage hormones took over. It’s a lot easier to relate to your kidnapper when he’s a gorgeous, mysterious-wait, what? I involuntarily shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Geez, Stockholm syndrome is not something to be taken lightly. And I haven’t even been imprisoned yet.

“What are you doing?” the voice asks. 

“Shaking my head?” I answer sarcastically.  

“You’re supposed to be smiling and nodding at the guards that are looking very suspiciously this way,” he sighs. 

“Ooh, look, masked man has a mouth,” I say sarcastically, but my mind is spinning as we walk through the main doors. What am I supposed to do now? Rose is with Steve, so she’s hopefully all right. Nat and Clint are probably more than capable of handling themselves. God only knows what Tony was up to. Beyond that, my all-consuming worry is what I should do with my new friend. Returning to the Quinjet would do me no good until I gave him the slip, if the Quinjet was still there. I consider my options as we walk, knowing that really my only directive was to think myself out of this snafu, or be kidnapped by this man with a mask. 

In a way, it was sort of calming, to have a single objective of survival, that cleared my mind and kicked it into high gear. I was watching the man next to me as carefully as I could, noting his every move, anticipating when his next step would be. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the slight crease at the base of his coat was made by the handle of a .97 handgun. What I found interesting was that that seemed to be his only weapon. The only person I’d seen these past few days with that limited an arsenal, obviously relying on body strength and agility, was Natasha. Of course, as he had so helpfully revealed, he too was a Soviet assassin. It was possible that he and Natasha were friends, in which case I could trust him, but it was just as possible that he had been corrupted by this Hydra I kept hearing about, in which case I was dead.

“Walk with me to that far lamppost, and then I will let you go,” the man says. 

“I’m sorry, what? You dragged me out of that ballroom for no reason?” I ask, not wanting to push my luck, but noting the quickening approach of the lamp post in question. 

“You needed to get out of there. I am repaying a favor, nothing more. Those men were very dangerous men,” the man says seriously. 

“Your compassion is heart-warming,” I say wryly. 

“You-” he starts to say. He’s cut off by the sudden and inexplicable explosion of the prize and joy of Bosnia and Herzegovina; the Opera House. I am forced to the ground by the unusually hard left arm of the masked man. I fall ungracefully in a cloud of feathers as my skirt rips along the heel of my shoes. I curse as I feel the concrete pavement cut into my elbows. The explosion is deafening, blinding even, and I feel an almost painful rush of hot air. That’s all there is, though, because I soon fade into blackness.


	13. I Believe I Can Fly (Rose's POV)

I find the Quinjet covered in a black tarp, expertly hidden behind the dome of the Bosnian Opera House. After much struggling, I manage to partially expose the body of the plane (tarps are really heavy, okay?). I search for the entry hatch, or a button to release it, but find none, I start yelling for JARVIS.

“JARVIS? Hello?” I shout. My voice echoes into the starry sky, but no answer returned. 

“Why isn’t this-oh. The comms,” I  reason aloud. “Okay then. I can do this.” I decide to crawl under the Quinjet to look for another hatch. I run my fingers across the smooth metal sheeting, and am relieved to find a small button. When I press it, there is a hissing noise above my head and the bottom of the Quinjet splits in half. 

“Great,” I mutter, staring up into the plane’s interior. With no ladder to get into the actual aircraft, I have to figure out a way to hoist myself up and into the plane.  _ Isla would be much better at this, _ I think grumpily as I attempt to accomplish my task. It is only with much teeth-gritting, grunting and swearing that I succeed in wriggling onto the cool floor. I search around the darkened plane for a light switch, careful not to accidently fall through the entry hatch from which I had come. That would be most unfortunate.

I eventually realize that I have to turn on the plane before I can get any sort of light (I’m a genius, I know) and so make my way to the cockpit. I slide awkwardly into the pilot seat and feel around for some sort of start button. There’s a screen display in front of me, but nothing else. I thought that the cockpit of an ordinary plane meant wall-to-wall buttons, but I hardly expected anything of Stark’s to be ordinary. I tap experimentally on the screen, and it sparks to life. The Stark Enterprises logo flashes in front of my face before it is replaced by a series of electronic controls. I stare blankly at the buttons before me, labeled with a variety of letters. I might as well have been reading Greek, for all the good it did me. A growing sense of panic, fear and anxiety began to rise in my stomach. I regretted eating all of those mini hamburgers. 

“What should I do? What should I do?” I muttered to myself. “God, get it together, Rose. You can do this. Think, think,  _ think. _ ” Suddenly, it hit me. An owner’s manual. All planes had them. I started to feel around under my seat, then on the co-pilot’s seat next to me. Finding nothing, I move on to the control panel, and find a handle hidden beneath the display. I pull and a glove compartment opens up. Inside, I can vaguely see the outline of a black binder. Illuminated by the glow of the display, I open up the manual and start to read. Tachometer, reticule switch, ammunition counter- _ ammunition counter?? _ Well, I was certainly not going to touch that. I was just looking to turn on the lights and shut the entry hatch! My hands start to shake as the enormity of the situation hits me for the second time. What am I  _ doing _ ? Isla is gone, there’s no way to contact anyone, not my family. I’m probably never going to see them again and- _ Stop,  _ a voice in my head says sternly.  _ Take a deep breath.  _ I do.  _ Look at the manual. You can do this. You’re going to get out of this. All you need to do is turn on the lights.  _

“I can do this,” I start to chant, re-reading the terms listed on the front page of the manual. I lean forward, my nose almost touching the display as I search; fuel release, no, radio beacon indicator, no, Manifold pressurizer, what the hell? Finally, though, I find a small indicator. A yellow button on the far right panel of controls. According to the manual, it’s the light button. I reach for it, but as I do, my elbow skids across the display. 

“Flight sequence, activated,” a cool female voice announces.

“What! No, that’s not what I-” I protest. I hear a hiss behind me as the entry hatch closes. The plane is suddenly lit with blue light. I relax in relief, only to feel a jolt as the plane starts to move. 

“Wait!” I shout. The circular indicators marked with numbers begin to spin and I look out the window. My stomach drops to my feet. I can see the roof, but only because the plane has taken off, spiraling upwards into the cloudy sky. 

“Okay, shut down,” I tell the display frantically. 

“Autopilot deactivated,” the voice says pleasantly as the plane makes an abrupt turn into a nosedive. I glance at the manual, but can make no sense of the numbers in front of me. I start to randomly press buttons and pull handles, praying that something will work. The red handle I pull in front of me does the trick, and the plane rights itself. 

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, paging through the manual, searching for the button for autopilot. 

“Umm go back to autopilot?” I tell the display. Nothing happens, and the plane wobbles in the air. I let out a huff of frustration. I’d read somewhere that turbulence is caused by the change in altitude, that it’s totally normal or whatever, but I was pretty sure the flashing red light by the “tachometer” meant bad things. Desperate, I page through the manual, checking for something that’s written in regular English. There’s a series of instructions at the back, written in spidery handwriting. It’s titled “Clint’s Guide to Flying: For Dummies”. 

“Oh thank God,” I breathe because it actually makes sense. The weird colored square with the half-circles shows my position in relation to the sun. The three indicators with needles and varying numbers and symbols signify airspeed, altitude and air pressure. As it is an electronic display, I control everything by my fingertips, moving handles and pulling levers with flicks of the wrist. Fortunately, Clint’s notes are detailed and explicit. I manage not to die for the next couple of minutes, and even start to tentatively relax. That is, of course, before the Opera House decides to blow up. 

The explosion rocks the plane violently back and forth, slamming my head against the cockpit chair. I grip the arms of the chair, fumbling at the seat belt (which I neglected to put on). I click the metal square into place and lean forward to examine the display. The handles controlling upward/downward movement are moving of their own accord. This, of course, results in the plane dropping into another nose dive. I push the red handle up and the plane mimics the movement, switching to a totally upward movement. I am thrown back into my seat as the plane turns vertical. I grab at the manual, but it slips out of my hands. I’m tempted to scream, certain now that I will either end up in space or explode once I reach Earth’s outer atmosphere. I’m reminded of the cause of my predicament; Opera House’s explosion. Steve, Natasha, Isla...Everyone. They were all truly gone. Grief and utter despair threatens to engulf me. My breath comes out in quick gasps, and my skin turns clammy.  _ You’ve gotten this far. Focus. Grieve later. You sure as hell are not going to die now. What did you do before that made you level out?  _ I really hate the voices in my head sometimes, but this time, I know it's right. I grit my teeth and reach forward for the controls. There’s no manual for me to follow, so I study the controls as logically as I can. If the red handle controls only drastic movement; up or down, there most be another control for finer movements. The dial to the left of the handle looks like a good bet, so I turn it to the right. The plane angles a bit downward, but not dramatically so. Encouraged, I turn the dial a little more, noting the changes in the indicators of the altitude. I let the plane lose height for a couple of feet before turning the dial and straightening out entirely.  I allow myself a small smile, relieved that I’m alive, and sort of impressed with myself. I can fly a plane! Who knew?

“Stark, do you copy?” My comm crackles to life. 

“Natasha?” I ask in disbelief. 

“Rose? Are you okay? Where are you?” Natasha demands. 

“I’m in the Quinjet, but the Opera House, it-” I start to say. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say? Please do not tell me you are trying to fly my baby!”

“Stark? You’re alive? You know, for a moment there I was really excited,” Clint says sarcastically. 

“Oh, shut it, birdbrain,” Stark snaps. “Rose, you’d better land that Quinjet now.”

“Rose, are you okay?” Natasha repeats. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I affirm. “Where’s Steve?” 

“Did you not hear me?” Stark actually sounds furious, which seems ridiculous, as all of us almost just died. “Land that plane or so help me God- _ OW NATASHA ROMANOV GET OFF OF ME. _ ”

“You are going to fly us up to the jet and we can help Rose land this so we can start looking for Steve and Isla, okay?” Nat speaks slowly, as if addressing a small child. 

“Fine,” Stark flings back. There’s a rushing sound, and then a tapping on the outside of the jet. I jump in surprise and peer through the glass window to see the vague outline of a man in red and gold armor, floating in mid-air. Two other bodies seem to be clinging to its arms. 

“Let us in, Rose,” Clint urges. 

“Yeah,” Stark agrees. “You gain a couple pounds, Barton? You’re like a sack of rocks!”

“I-I don’t know how,” I reply, panic starting to creep back into my voice. 

“It’s okay, Rose,” Natasha says calmly. “Just tell the autopilot to open the hatch.”

“I can’t-I turned off the autopilot. I don’t know how to turn it back on,” I say. 

“You  _ what? _ Do you mean to tell me that you flew this plane without the autopilot?” Clint demands. 

“Two things. One, you are lucky you hadn’t crashed. God have mercy on your soul if you did,” Tony says. “Two, if you don’t figure out a way to open this door, I’m gonna drop Legolas about twelve hundred feet, so I encourage you to hurry up.”  
“Didn’t you design this? Shouldn’t you know where the button is?” Clint wants to know. 

“Rose, there is a green lever on the lower lefthand corner of the display. Pull that,” Natasha instructs. I do as she says, and the hatch hisses open. Cold air rushes in, and the plane starts to shake. 

“Push the green lever back up,” Natasha shouts. I comply and the hatch shuts once more. 

“That was speedy,” I comment lightly. Natasha crosses the plane and peers over my shoulder at the display. She whistles softly. 

“How’d you do all this without the autopilot?”  
“Uhm...I used Clint’s manual in the back,” I say self-consciously. 

“See, Tasha? I told you it’d be useful,” Clint pipes up. I look up at Natasha, her green dress smeared with soot. She is missing a ballet slipper and there is a cut across her cheek, but she looks fine. Clint’s hair has been singed, and his suit it also covered in the black ashy substance. He is otherwise unharmed. Stark seems untouched, his suit as immaculate as before, although the Iron Man suit probably has something to do with it. 

“Where’d it go? The suit, I mean,” I ask him. He taps a pair of silver bracelets. 

“Newest development,” he explains briefly. “Activates and deactivates within the blink of an eye.”

“Autopilot activate,” Natasha says clearly. 

“Autopilot activated,” the automated voice replies. I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. 

“I should have probably thought of that,” I admit. 

“Probably,” Natasha says-not sarcastically. She seems too focused on studying both me and the electronic display, her face an enigma. Clint joins her, and the two spies regard me with entirely unreadable expressions on their faces. 

“Do we know where Steve is?” I ask tentatively, after the silence has stretched on for an interminably long period of time. Stark shrugs. 

“Dunno why his comms aren’t back on,” he says, walking over to the holotable. “But it gives off a signal. JARVIS?”

“He’s not answering,” I inform him. 

“So I see,” Tony frowns. I look at Natasha and Clint, both still staring, and clear my throat. They jump, looking guilty. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Natasha asks again. I nod emphatically. 

“Got him!” Stark shouts triumphantly. “I’ve got Isla too. I’m a genius, I know. Spare the compliments.” Clint, Natasha and I look at him with raised eyebrows. He sighs, annoyed. 

“Unrecognized genius,” he mutters, pointing at what appears to be a real-time map of the remains of the Bosnian Opera House and the destroyed street blocks around it. Two heat signatures could be seen, one stretched out, apparently lying down, the other a couple of streets away, crouched beneath a circular something. 

“There’s Steve. Being a turtle,” Clint sighs, tapping the crouched figure. He examines the map for a moment, then strides over to me. He twists the icon for the compass to a latitude and longitude point, presumably corresponding with Steve’s position. The plane dips and then makes a sharp turn, throwing us all to one side. 

“Clint!” Natasha admonishes. 

“Clint!” Tony echoes. “If you get so much as a scratch-”

“Please don’t overexert yourself. Your heart really can’t take the strain,” Clint says. He winks at me. 

“I’ll show you some real flying,” he says cockily. I climb gratefully out of the cockpit and join Natasha and Stark by the holotable. 

“Show-off,” Natasha says fondly. 

“Join the Avengers, they said. It would be fun, they said,” Stark whines. 

“Guys?”

“Steve!” I shout excitedly. Natasha gives me a quizzical look. 

“Yes, Rose. That’s Steve. Steve, do you copy?” She asks. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Steve replies. “Rose, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, by the way, if anyone wants to know,” Stark interjects. 

“No one does,” Clint replies promptly. 

“Open up the hatch, Clint,” Steve tells him. 

“You haven’t even landed,” I protest. Apparently, Captain America doesn’t need a plane to land, because Clint opens the entry hatch and Steve comes flying in. 

“How did you do that?” I ask in awe. He is soot-smeared, and his tux is ripped, presumably from shrapnel. Judging from the dim light of the sparking lampposts around us, he was at the epicenter of the blast. 

“Well, the serum allows me to jump really far, and the shield protected me from the explosion,” Steve explains as the hatch closes. He gestures to a red, white and blue circle of metal. I’d seen the famed piece of armor all over the Internet, but up close, it looked far more battered and marked up than I’d imagined.  

“Isla is on the far side of the Opera House,” Natasha reports to Clint. 

“Or what’s left of it,” Tony quips. 

“Yeah, about that,” Steve frowns. “Do we know  _ why  _ one of the most famous places in Bosnia just blew up in the first place?”

“Nope! Probably in response to my majestic splendour,” Stark answers cheerily. Everyone’s attitude is grossly disproportionate to almost being turned into a pile of ashes, and it was starting to freak me out.

“After a while, you’re numb to this sort of thing,” a voice says next to me. I jump, and it’s Natasha. She’s managed to read my mind (again) and is looking at me expectantly for a reply. I don’t really know what to say. What does one say? Ah, yes, I know. Me, Rose Clavell, superspy extraordinaire. I, too, am numb to the carnage and destruction around me as I, too, have experienced such things and-my train of thought is derailed by the sound of Natasha laughing. I look at her quizzically before I realize that I’d been speaking my thoughts aloud. 

“I didn’t mean that!” I blurt out quickly. Natasha just keeps laughing. 

“What is that noise?” Stark yelps. “Is that-is that Natasha Romanov  _ laughing _ ?” He stares at her in shock. Natasha rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, I can laugh, Tony. Is it really that surprising?” 

“Yes. It is,” to all of our amusement, Tony is dead serious. He is regarding me with a sort of fear. 

“We’re here,” Clint calls from the cockpit. “She looks unconscious, but I think she’s breathing.”  A visual of Isla, probably taken from a camera posted outside of the jet, pops up on the holotable. She is lying on a park bench. It looks odd, the way her limbs are arranged, as if by someone else who wanted to make her unnoticeable. Her arms are flung across her face, her legs tucked beneath her dress so that the pool of light from the lamppost doesnt touch her, but I know without a shadow of doubt that it is Isla.  _ Of course, she’s the only one stupid enough to wear a dress with feathers _ , I think. She’s drowning in her extravagant dress, her chest sunken beneath her sharply outlined clavicles, like a very sick child with the golden circlet on her brow like a halo. I have to swallow hard to stop the tears welling up in my eyes; she’s always been smaller, more delicate than I, but here she looks fragile, like glass made too thin and on the verge of shattering.  I can’t even see her chest rising or falling, no indication that she’s alive. She looks like a corpse. 

“She’s alive, I think,” Clint interrupts my thoughts.

“You think?” I demand, annoyed. 

“Um, yeah?” the archer answers unhelpfully. I barely manage to restrain a small sob and feel a hand tightening around mine. Through the thickening haze of tears and worry, I can make out Steve’s profile bent in concern over our joined hands.  

“I’ll get her,” he volunteers as the hatch opens again. He squeezes my hand and then jumps through. There’s a moment of tense silence before he reappears moments later, holding Isla in his arms. A chill runs down my spine at the sight of her. 

Tony, wordless for once, helps Steve place Isla’s body onto the holotable. Natasha types in a string of code into the interface and the hard holotable splits in half to reveal a gurney beneath it. A glass sheet arches over the top of the holotable, encasing Isla inside. 

“It keeps her vitals-breathing, blood pressure, heart rate, all of that-going,” Natasha says, in answer to my look of confusion. 

“Looks kind of like a glass casket, I know, but it works,” Clint assures me, his voice light. He taps his right forearm. “Saved me this lucky limb a fair few times.” I suddenly have the urge to scream, smash my hand against the glass. Why weren’t they freaking out? Isla could be dead, yet here was Clint, yammering about some old battle scar. It takes all of what’s left of my self-control to contain my fury, my frustration at being totally useless in this world of superheroes. I just want my friend back. 

“Which wouldn’t have had to happen if you weren’t an idiot,” Natasha comments, strangely oblivious to my obvious inner turmoil.  “Isla’s going to be fine. She’s just unconscious. She’s going to be okay.” 

Five words. That’s all it takes. And whether it’s from relief or just shock I don’t know, but I burst into tears.


	14. The Ride Home (Isla's POV)

You know what’s not fun? Being in the vicinity of an almost-nuclear explosion. Nope, not fun at all. Of course, I’d blacked out before I could see the exploding bodies and screams of pain and agony, but I still felt like hell. And to top it off, I woke to Rose blubbering over me. I was lying on my back, and was (for some reason) in a glass case thing. I had a moment of claustrophobia before I realized how cool it was. There were these images projected onto the glass that I could read; blood pressure count, heartbeat, current metabolic rate. It was strangely hypnotizing, and I watched the image of my heart beat spikes for a while, almost drifting back to sleep. That is, until Stark noticed that I was awake, shrieked and started tapping on the glass excitedly while Natasha tried to pry him away. Rose stopped crying, her eyes wide with relief, and I saw Steve give her a one-armed hug. I began to smirk and was going to say something when Clint asks,

“How are you feeling?” I can hear him perfectly despite the glass. I give him a thumbs-up, but soon find I don’t have the strength to speak. My head feels like it’s been bashed repeatedly against a rock, and my throat has definitely seen better days. I can see the distorted reflection of myself in the glass, though, and I look  _ fabulous.  _ Like, model-gorgeous. Go me. Go makeup. I start to giggle and immediately regret it, as my throat feels like it's going to split in half. I see Steve, Rose and Clint’s concerned faces peering through the glass at my convulsing body. 

“Hysteria. It’s a way for her body to deal with the shock,” I hear Natasha say calmly. 

“Huh,” Clint regards me with a sort of detached interest. “Well, the faster we can get out of here before the police come the better.”

“And the press,” Steve adds. Clint nods grimly and he disappears out of my line of sight, probably to the cockpit. The ground shifts, the holotable sways as we lift off. A soothing humming fills the jet as it gains speed. I can see the night sky with a waning moon admist the silver stars and close my eyes for a moment. 

“Isla? Isla, are you okay? Nat, why are her eyes closing?” I hear Rose’s voice piercing the peaceful air. 

“Shut up Rose. Trying to sleep,” I mumble. Natasha murmurs something to Rose, and the Quinjet falls silent. Satisfied, I slip into the velvety blackness of sleep. 

I wake an hour or two later, feeling considerably better. Natasha is using the interface on the holotable to check the latest news. Tony is poking Steve repeatedly in the stomach with the finger of his Iron Man gauntlet. Steve is stoically ignoring him and continues snoring quietly. Rose is watching Natasha, her eyes with the glassy appearance of one who is on the brink of total exhaustion. The longer I’m awake, the more energized I feel, a fact I notice only after I see a cord of some sort leading out of the crook in my right arm. Yay. Drugs. 

“Hellooo?” I pipe up cheerily. Tony sighs at his failed attempts to get Steve to react and saunters over to Natasha.

“Nice job, Tony,” she comments, regarding me as I start tapping absently on the glass.

“What? Why?” I inquire.

“I injected you with this new drug,” Tony says matter-of-factly. 

“You  _ what _ ?” Rose exclaims, instantly snapping out of her reverie. 

“Yeah, what do you think I was sticking in her arm? IV fluids? It’s fine. I’m testing it for Dr Banner. He wanted to observe what the effects of the combined compound of hydro-” Tony starts to explain, but falls quiet when he hears me quacking like a duck. Natasha and Rose both give him death glares.

“Is  _ this  _ the sort of after-effect you and Banner were looking for?” Natasha asks. 

“I’d like to know why you were looking for an after-effect on my friend after she almost  _ died  _ in an explosion,” Rose says, her voice rising. 

“We all almost did,” Tony points out sulkily. 

“Yes, but you-you’ve been doing this for years! You’re  _ superheroes,  _ and me and Isla, we’re just boarding school kids, okay? I don’t know how we got here, I sure as hell don’t know why, but I do know that the last thing we need or want is getting high on some drug you came up with with the Incredible Hulk!” Well, if I was looking for Rose’s opinion on the matter of our whole world-saving-with-the-Avengers-101 situation, I had it now. I had been wondering how she was coping with the enormity of the whole subject, and it was certainly good to see her blow off some steam. I smile brightly at her and give an encouraging nod. Natasha is the first to apologize,

“Rose, Isla, I’m sorry,” she says frankly. “I don’t mean to make light of what is, in fact, a very serious situation. We don’t know why everything went so wrong, but it did, and there’s no going back. I’m sorry you had to witness it.”

“Yeah,” Tony seems chastised, for once. “I’m sorry for drugging you, Isla. Didn’t think it could change much, eh?” 

“That’s as close as an apology as you’re going to get from Stark,” Steve joins in, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “And for the record, I’ve also got an apology to make to both of you. Believe me when I tell you that there wasn’t much of an option, but if there had been another way, we would have taken it.”

“About that, or this whole thing in general,” Stark intercedes. “We should really talk about the whole Opera House exploding. And also not meeting our contact. And also having what was supposed to be a really easy op go sideways.”

“I’d love to agree with you, Stark, I really would. We agree with little enough as it is, but we’re touching down at the Tower now and I need to to reactivate security systems,” Clint informs Tony. Tony nods and disappears into the cockpit without another word. A series of whirs and hums can be heard, then the pleasant, cool timbre of JARVIS’ voice. 

“Welcome back, Ms Romanov, Mr Barton, Mr Stark, Mr Rogers, Ms Isla and Ms Rose,” he greets us. 

“You know, JARVIS, if I’m your creator, you’d best put me first when you’re welcoming me back from a mission,” Tony quips. 

“Like a cantankerous old woman,” Natasha clicks her tongue, tapping in a system of controls into the holotable. The glass case covering me slides back into the table and, with a helpful arm from Rose, I climb off. Rose spends a moment dusting off my shoulders. 

“You okay?” she whispers, hazel eyes peering concernedly into mine. I smile as convincingly as I can. 

“I am. I promise. You?”

“Good. And we need to talk about-”

“Hey guys, we’ve got company,” Clint warns. I glance out the window of the plane and realize that he is right. The humming of the jet had blocked out most of the noise, but I couldn’t imagine how any of us could still have missed the incredible din. The roof of Stark Tower is covered in photographers and journalists, screaming and shouting. On the streets below, twice as many people are pounding on the glass. We land on the helipad, the swarm of people receding only slightly to accomodate the size of the Quinjet. 

“Yay,” Tony says, without the slightest bit of excitement. 

“This is what happens when you disable all security protocols, sir,” JARVIS points out politely.

“Well, I’m back. So please tell these people to leave us alone,” Stark replies grumpily.

“Do you think you can walk, Isla?” Steve asks. I give him an offended look.

“Despite being injected with some sketchy drug and nearly blown up, I’ve never felt better,” I reply ironically, even though my head starts spinning when I try to do so. I grip the edge of the holotable with fierce determination. I don’t want to trouble anyone-and besides I can probably sleep off whatever is running through my bloodstream (thanks, Stark). 

“All right. Masks on, then,” Natasha tosses me my white mask. Everyone else’s are still attached around their heads. Clint presses a button and the entry hatch opens for the final time. Stark walks out first, his hands spread wide, trying to attract as much attention as possible, quickly followed by Steve. I feel a warm surge of gratitude towards the snarky billionaire as Natasha and Clint guide Rose and I around the crowd of camera-bearing men and women. We are ushered into the elevator, a harried Steve and Tony joining us moments later. The elevator doors slide shut to the sound of clicking camera shutters and shouting reporters. 

“D’you think they got any pictures of Rose and Isla?” Steve inquires. Natasha shrugs. 

“Probably. But not nearly good enough to ID them. You guys will be fine,” she assures us. Rose and I nod, knowing that that’s probably the least of our problems.

“Okay, mission recap in the living room,” Clint announces. Tony groans, passing a hand over his eyes. 

“Can we not? I don’t know about you guys, but I’d love some shuteye right now,” he declares. Steve, Natasha and Clint exchange glances. 

“Didn’t you  _ just  _ say how you wanted to talk about this?” Clint says slowly, measuring his words in order to communicate his annoyance at Stark. 

“Didn’t you just-” Tony starts to mimic. 

“Isla and Rose are exhausted,” Natasha intervenes quickly, gesturing to us as we yawn at the same time. “We need them to get a proper idea of what happened. News recaps and possible satellite data JARVIS can collect overnight will be helpful as well.”

“He’s on it, aren’t you, JARVIS?” Tony looks expectantly at the ceiling of the elevator. 

“Right away, Mr Stark,” JARVIS responds dutifully. 

“Great,” Tony sighs. “So we can get some sleep now, then?” 

“Can we get some sleep now?” Clint echoes in a whine. Natasha elbows him sharply in the stomach and he stops, glaring at Tony. 

“Yep. See you in the morning,” Steve smiles at us, somewhat strained at the attitudes of his team-mates.. The elevator dings softly and the doors slide open. 

“Goodnight,” Rose smiles. 

“Goodnight,” everyone else replies as the doors slide shut. Rose and I walk back to our room without a word. 

“D’you think they’re actually going to bed? Or are they just going to…” Rose says when we walk into our room. The windows are darkened but the room is warm and smells of sandalwood and citrus. It’s an odd smell, comforting and soothing. 

“Psychoanalyze us?” I guess. “Nah, I think Clint looked pretty tired. That’s why he was fighting with Stark.”

“And Natasha?” Rose pursues. “Steve?”

“I don’t think that either of them need sleep, but if the others are trying to, so will they,” I assure her, untying the stays to my bodice. It takes a while for both of us to totally undress, wash the makeup off of our faces and take down our hair, and we do it mechanically, too exhausted to do otherwise. I can’t be bothered to shower, but Rose does. I intend to stay awake and talk to her about what happened, but end up falling asleep to the sound of the water pattering softly against the bathroom walls.


	15. Freaky Friday (Isla's POV)

I’m the first to wake up. The clock next to my bed--a sleek silver box with numbers projected in blue light--tells me it is one-thirty in the afternoon, but JARVIS has kindly darkened the windows. I lie there for a time, staring at the ceiling and trying to absorb everything that has happened. After a series of jumbled memories and mental images, I decide to walk through the events of the opera house sequentially rather than the frightened puzzle my brain has created. I begin with the landing of the Quinjet. I try to replay every detail, every face that sticks out as particularly odd. It’s an arduous process, and I start muttering to myself to try and keep track of the guests I had seen. I must have not been as quiet as I intended, because Rose starts to stir. I fall silent, but it’s too late. 

“Isla?” her voice echoes from the loft.

“G’morning, Rosie,” I reply. 

“When are you happy in the mornings,” she groans. 

“When you aren’t. Your pain is my amusement,” I reply promptly. “JARVIS, de-shutter the windows please.” At my command, sunlight suddenly blasts through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

“You sadistic little-” Rose shrieks. I squint up at my friend, who is frantically covering her eyes in an attempt to block out the light. 

“Miss Smith, I would advise a perhaps more ambient lighting for the sake of Miss Clavell,” JARVIS offers politely. 

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead, JARVIS,” I grin, and the room dims to an acceptable brightness. 

“I hate you,” Rose grumbles as she climbs down the ladder. 

“Eh, I know,” I answer calmly. “Shall we go see if we can grab breakfast? I’m starving.”

“Mr Stark is in the kitchen on Level 31. He seems to be attempting to make a pot of coffee on the stove, and is failing miserably. I can have some food brought up to your room, as Mr Stark does not seem to be in the best of moods,” JARVIS’ automated voice supplies. 

“Nah, it’s all good, JARVIS,” I say, rolling out of bed and opening my closet. I notice a series of new additions to my wardrobe and look up at the ceiling in question. 

“I took the liberty of acquiring some more clothing, as I believe you will be staying with us for the rest of your Christmas break. A call came in from your parents earlier this morning,” JARVIS informs me.

“What? My parents called?” I ask, pulling a new crimson sweater over my pajama shorts and bra. “What-what’s happened?”

“I am not entirely certain, Miss Smith. I am sorry,” JARVIS apologizes, and he sounds sincere, for an AI.

“Right. Time to wrangle some answers out of Sparky,” I declare, unplugging my phone from it's charger and checking the screen. Nothing. I huff in frustration and wait impatiently for Rose. She, too, seems to have a replenished closet and is trying to choose between a white sweater and a blue and green flannel. 

“Just choose one,” I tell her. “Steve probably doesn’t care if you’re wearing anything.”

“Ew!” she chastises. “He’s, like, thirty.”

“Twenty-five,” I correct. When she looks at me in surprise, I shrug. “I asked Clint. That’s, what ten years? Not bad.” Rose rolls her eyes. 

“You’re disgusting,” she states. 

“I’m right and you don’t want to admit it,” I answer sweetly. Rose doesn’t give a reply, settling on the white sweater and teal pants. We leave our bedroom and walk down the hallway to the elevator. 

“I’m sorry I nodded off yesterday,” I apologize as we board the elevator. 

“Don’t worry. I was exhausted,” Rose assures me, pressing the button for level thirty-one. There’s the stomach-dropping feeling as the elevator shoots downwards. 

“I heard you flew a plane,” I comment. 

“Yeah,” Rose nods. “Not really. I mean, Clint had this crash course thing for me, and I figured out the rest.”

“Hey, not bad at all though,” I say, careful not to let too much awe appear in my voice. I’d heard Natasha and Clint muttering about Rose’s flying skills and I was pretty sure that Tony Stark’s Quinjet was not something you could just “figure out”. I wasn’t about to tell Rose that, of course. 

“Eh,” she shrugs. “This is all so crazy I think I’m starting to get numb to it all.”

“Me too,” I agree. “I mean, we were almost blown up yesterday. And the day before that, we met the Avengers, for crying out loud. Part of me thinks it’s...”

“Just not real,” Rose finishes for me. There’s a muted  _ ding  _ and the doors slide open. 

I haven’t seen the kitchen of Stark Tower (if it can even really be called that) and don’t know what to expect. I highly doubt that Anthony Stark ever finds himself needing to cook, so I’m surprised by the sight of a professional-grade kitchen area. The marble-topped island, oven, grill, cupboards and stove with numerous dials and buttons takes up  the left side of the entire floor. The right wall is all glass, with images taken from the night before in Bosnia projected onto it. Rose goes over to inspect the images and is soon engaged in a quiet conversation with JARVIS about his findings. I traverse the room to where a kettle of water hisses shrilly on the stovetop. Clearly, Stark had abandoned his pursuit of coffee. I turn off the stove and search the glass cabinets on either side for mugs. Successful, I root through drawers for some tea bags. I pour Rose some of the steaming water and bring it over to her. 

“Lavender Earl Grey,” I explain when she sniffs the tea suspiciously. “All I could find.”

“Thanks,” she takes a sip and wrinkles her nose at the taste. 

“What have we got?” I indicate the glass, quirking my eyebrow and deepening my voice. “Operation Singing Lady didn’t go so well. Has M said anything?” Rose frowns. 

“This isn’t funny, Isla. This isn’t James Bond,” she chides. 

“I’m being very serious,” I protest. “And by all accounts, it  _ is _ a spy movie. We went to a masked ball in Bosnia and barely escaped with our lives.”

“Well, I couldn’t make much sense of it,” Rose admits. “I’m going to wait for Natasha and the rest to show up. Speaking of which, where’s Stark?” 

“Don’t know. Probably drunk,” I shrug. 

“True,” Tony’s voice, a little higher than usual, says. 

“Morning, Stark,” Rose and I say in unison, not bothering to turn around. 

“Where’d you go? JARVIS said you were in here a few minutes ago,” I tell him, scrolling through the guest list of the people at the Bosnian opera house.

“Downstairs to wake everyone else up. We need to talk about...well, about everything,” he sounds uncharacteristically serious, which is sort of a relief. I’d never admit it, but his nonchalance was as intimidating as Natasha’s icy intensity. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. 

“I feel disgusting, which is probably to be expected, but then I did almost die less than twenty-four hours ago,” I reply wryly. I turn to Rose, wondering what her answer will be, but she’s staring slack-jawed at Tony. I turn around and gasp in shock. 

“What?” Tony demands, when he notices our stares. 

“Tony...Tony, you’re,” Rose splutters. 

“I’m what? Devastatingly handsome? I know,” Tony sighs dramatically, inspecting his fingernails.

“No, you’re a teenage boy,” I tell him bluntly. 

“Ah, c’mon, Isla,” he chuckles. “Give me a straight answer, will you? Seriously, if I have shaving cream on my face or something, tell me.”

“You’re actually a teenage boy,” I repeat, unable to process what is standing in front of me. He laughs. 

“Grumpy, then are we?” 

“Look in the damn mirror, Stark,” Rose snaps. The steel covering for the kitchen stove is so polished that it’s reflective, so when Tony looks at it, he starts shrieking. 

“My face! My beautiful, beautiful face!”

“Okay, okay, okay. Whoa, Tony,” Rose tries to approach him, her arms stretched forward in a pacifying gesture. If I weren’t so shocked by the fact that Iron Man had transformed into a teenager dressed in a too-big bathrobe, I’d probably be laughing.

“I’m an ugly, stinky llama!” Tony continues wailing. 

“Okay, Stark, you need to calm down,” I say. I might as well have been talking to a brick wall, for all the good it did.

“Geez, Stark. I knew you looked bad in the mornings, but I didn’t know you looked  _ this  _ bad,” Clint’s voice (also higher) remarks. When I turn to face him, I’m dismayed to find him also in teenage form.

“You should look at yourself, Legolas,” Tony replies bitterly. Clint frowns in confusion, then glances at his reflection. With an impressive voice crack, he starts screaming. 

“Clint! Shut  _ up,  _ will you?” Natasha yells. “I can hear you all the way- _ Bozhe. _ ” 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve all gone Benjamin Button,” Rose says pleadingly before she turns around to face the redhead.

“Sorry,” Natasha apologizes. Despite her physical transformation, she looks the most collected of the three. There’s no huge change in her appearance, really, either. She and Steve were the youngest members of the Avengers, or so Clint told me, and she had young features to begin with. Clint looked fine as well, perhaps even better than his previous form as he lacked the age lines around his eyes and mouth. His one hilarious defect was the fact that his hair, instead of being cropped short, was styled in some sort of mullet. I suppress a snicker. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Natasha mutters.

“You can’t believe this?  _ You  _ can’t believe this? Look at this!” Tony strides over to Natasha, gesturing at an unfortunately large zit on his nose. 

“Do you see that?  _ Do you see that? _ ” he demands. “A pimple. A  _ pimple. _ ” Tony flops to the floor in a mock faint. 

“Tony, you okay?” Steve’s concerned voice asks. Steve. I turn around excitedly, reasoning that the serum must have protected him from whatever it was that had turned the rest of the Avengers into their younger selves. He still had the effects of the serum, clearly, if the biceps bulging beneath his shirt sleeves were anything to go by, but he, too, was a teenager. 

“No, I’m not. I’m a pimply little squirt,” Tony groans from his position on the floor. “Look at you, all muscly and stuff. It’s not fair. Why can’t I have retained my previous good looks?”

“Because they didn’t exist in the first place,” Clint points out, examining his reflection in the camera of his Iphone. 

“I really don’t think we’re addressing the issue here,” Natasha hops gracefully onto the kitchen island and sits, cross-legged on the marble tabletop. She grabs an orange and starts peeling it with delicate fingers.

“And what is that, pray tell?” Tony grumbles. 

“Well first there was the blowing up of the opera house, then there’s the small issue of, oh, I don’t know, the fact that you’re  _ teenagers _ ,” Rose exclaims. 

“Natasha and I were looking over-” Clint starts to say. 

“Mr Stark?” JARVIS’s voice cuts across Clint. 

“What is it now?” Tony groans. 

“There is an unidentified person on Level 65,” JARVIS informs us. 

“And? Direct him to the door, please and thank you,” Tony sounds very put out, although I probably would be too if I woke up in the body he’s in now. 

“Mr Stark, I believe that it is the Winter Soldier,” JARVIS says. At the mention of ‘the Winter Soldier’, Natasha’ back straightens and she sets her orange down with deliberate precision. Clint turns immediately wary, and Steve gives a soft cough of shock before quickly exiting the room. As he leaves, I notice Tony’s eyes blackening with a rage I’d never seen before. His hands are balled into fists and a vein is popping out of his neck. He’s totally unhinged, a mad sort of intensity pulsing in within him as he taps his silver bracelet. The pieces to his Iron man suit appear out of nowhere and start attaching to the ARC reactor in his chest.

“Stark,” Natasha says warningly. 

“Don’t you ‘Stark’ me, we’ve talked about this enough,” Tony snaps. I glance around nervously at Rose, who is watching Tony and Natasha with wide eyes. Clint’s expression doesn’t change as his arm strays to a black bracelet strapped around his forearm. He presses a button and it unfolds down his arm to make an arm guard. It continues to unfold until a recurve bow hangs around his shoulder. He strides over to one of the kitchen drawers and presses twice on the bottom. A wood panel springs open and he takes out three arrows and two throwing knives, which he tosses to Natasha. At this point, I’m not sure if the three Avengers are arming themselves against the Winter Soldier or against each other. 

“What-what’s going on? Who’s the Winter Soldier?” Rose demands. Tony continues to ignore us, and Natasha and Clint are engaged in quiet but urgent conversation. I look at Rose worriedly. I don’t recognize the name immediately, but I can feel something in the back of my mind warning me against any sort of association with it. Great. Another possible super villain roaming the halls of Stark Tower. What more could possibly go wrong?

“I’m going to find that son of a-,” Tony starts to say. 

“Then I’m coming with you,” Clint says simply. 

“Barton, sorry to break this to you, but I don’t need your help,” Tony replies flatly. I expect Clint to get angry, punch Stark in the face or something, but he only nocks an arrow into his bow. Tony scoffs. I notice an odd gleam in his eye, right before he turns and sprints as fast as he can towards the glass window. I scream and instinctively cover my face as the glass shatters. Cold air whooshes into the room and Natasha, Rose and I stumble back. Clint runs to the edge of the window and looks down.

“Damn,” he curses. “He’s taken the suit. Nat, we’ve gotta go.”

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?” Rose coughs, waving the dust from the broken glass away from her face. “Mr Stark just jumped out a bloody window. And-”

“Let’s go,” Natasha twirls the handles of her knives back and forth, frowning. She looks at Clint and mouths one word. I can’t see what it is, but Clint blanches. 

“Tash, are you sure?” he asks dubiously, before nodding his understanding. Without another word, he leaves the room, headed to the elevator. When Natasha turns around, her mouth is set in a hard line. I wonder what the word was.

“Natasha,” Rose pleads. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

“Why was Tony so upset? Why did Steve and Clint leave so fast? Who is everyone even mad at?” I start to babble. 

“Stay close,” Natasha says in answer. “And follow me.” She leaves the kitchen and presses the elevator. Clint already took it, though, so we have to wait. 

“The Winter Soldier was a HYDRA asset, that they used to try and take out me, Nick Fury and Cap last spring,” Natasha explains. 

“Was?” I repeat. The elevator doors slide open and we get in. 

“Well, that’s where the issue is,” she says, pressing button sixty-five. “Before he was the Winter Soldier, he was Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend.”

“So what happened? Why did he become this Winter Soldier?” Rose asks.

“HYDRA brainwashed him. Used electroshock-among other things-to wipe his memory, programmed him to be the perfect soldier,” there’s a note of grief in Natasha’s voice that makes me wonder if she had known Bucky and/or the Winter Soldier longer than she had said. “After SHIELD and HYDRA’s subsequent fall, the Winter Soldier started to remember who he was before HYDRA had taken him. Steve says that he’s actually Bucky now, not the Soldier.”

“Wait, wait, so if he was Steve’s best friend in the 40’s, how is he alive?” I ask. 

“HYDRA collaborated with the KGB to create a serum similar to Steve’s, and then cryogenically froze him,” Natasha answers. 

“Okay, but if he’s Bucky, then why was Stark so pissed?”

“Because while he was the Winter Soldier, HYDRA sent him to take out one of SHIELD’s scientists. Their best scientist, in fact. A man by the name of Howard Stark. His wife, Maria, was in the car at the same time,” Natasha explains. I let out a breath of surprise. 

“Oh God,” Rose murmurs. “That’s terrible. How old was Tony?”

“Seventeen,” Natasha sighs. Rose and I fall silent. I don’t know if I sympathize with Tony (thank God, I wasn’t able to empathize) but I certainly pity him. It explains his bravado and his snarky, arrogant attitude to hide the grief he still wasn’t used to. 

“But Bucky’s Steve’s best friend, so Steve must want him alive,” Rose reasons. 

“Yep, but Tony’s never been the best at, ahem, ‘negotiating’,” Natasha explains. “And so the whole Winter Soldier/Bucky conversation about him hasn’t been resolved.”

“Resolved?” I ask. 

“Tony wants blood. Revenge for a murder he’s had to live with his entire life,” Natasha answers heavily. “But Steve thinks that Bucky still deserves to be saved.”

There’s a hardness to her voice that jerks the gravity of the situation into focus. The atmosphere is so unlike the one from the night before. The Avengers were a team, then, joking around and getting ready to save the world as they had done countless times before. Judging by their standards, even with the Opera House explosion, it wasn’t a bad operation either. But I can see the cracks starting to spider across Natasha’ composure and I realize how much this whole Bucky thing has affected the team’s ability to function. 

“Can you afford him-I mean Bucky-the benefit of the doubt, though?” I ask. Natasha gives me a sharp look. 

“He who is without sin shall cast the first stone,” Rose quotes, shrugging. I open my mouth to argue when Natasha catches me hard across the chest with her arm. 

“Do you have  _ any _ idea how much that  _ hurts _ ?!” I groan wrapping my arms protectively around my torso. 

“Be quiet,” Natasha orders as the elevator stops moving and the doors open. The room is filled with what was once orderly lines of office desks and chairs, separated by glass dividers frosted with the Stark Enterprises logo. Now, shattered glass glitters like jewels on the ground, the splintered remains of the furniture laying haphazardly across the floor. A figure is slumped against one of the desks in the far corner, the glow of Tony’s ARC reactor illuminating him as he stands over the body. Natasha puts her finger to her lips again and we fall in behind her. Clint appears, melting out of the darkness to joing Natasha. I hear him murmur quietly,

“Dammit, Steve, where are you?”

“Get out of here Romanov, Barton,” Stark’s voice holds none of its usual warmth and charm and a dagger of ice-cold fear spears my heart. “Rose and Isla, you shouldn’t be here.” 

“Yeah, no, we really shouldn’t,” I say nervously, my voice cracking with terror. I start to walk towards the elevator, praying Rose will follow me, but Natasha’s arm shoots out and grabs my wrist.

“We’re all here,” Natasha replies, dragging me to her side. She stresses the ‘we’, and I realize why Rose and I are here; to stop Stark from going totally ballistic for the fear of hurting civilians. I resent Natasha for using us as a shield, but then reason that it’s probably for the better. In some sick, twisted way, I want to meet theWinter Soldier, if only to observe what (admittedly horrific) fascinating psychosis he would have acquired throught HYDRA’s brainwashing. 

“Get out,” Stark repeats. 

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen, Tony,” a wave of relief washes over me as I hear Steve. Through the weakened sunlight, I see him in his Captain America uniform, red, white and blue shield raised. On closer inspection, I find that the skin-tight material is loose and hangs oddly on his smaller frame. 

“Rogers, this isn’t your fight. They were my parents,” there’s immeasurable grief in Tony’s words and despite my fear, my heart goes out to him. 

“I know. I know, Tony. Let’s take off the suit and talk about this,” Steve reasons. 

“No, you don’t know,” Tony cries suddenly, raising his arm. The blaster at the center of his palm burns a bright blue. “No one knows! No one knows how it feels. No one knows how much I want this bastard dead!”   
“Tony, he’s my best friend. Please, you’ve gotta believe me. It wasn’t Bucky that killed your parents, it was the Winter Soldier, and he’s dead now,” Steve pleads, taking another step toward Tony. 

“Bucky, Winter Soldier, it doesn’t change the fact that they’re gone and they’re not coming back. Besides, are you going to vouch that “Bucky” is not going to hurt another innocent person for the rest of his life?” Tony demands. “Cause if you can, if you can say without a shadow of doubt that this man is totally different from the man who shot out the tires on my parent's’ car, then I’ll let him live.” 

A beat of tense, charged silence. 

“Yes,” Steve replies, leveling his gaze and forcing Tony to look at him as he puts his shield around his back. Tony hesitates before lowering his arm and powering down his suit. There’s a hum of machinery and the suit collapses into the two silver bracelets on the teenage Stark’s wrists. 

“All right, then,” he says, his voice subdued. “We bring him to the S-unit and wait til he wakes up.” 


	16. The S-Unit (Isla's POV)

The walk to the S-Unit is filled with silence. Steve is first, carrying the unconscious Bucky over his shoulder. Tony stalks behind him, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. Clint and Natasha are immersed in conversation that I’m pretty sure is entirely in Russian. Rose and I trail behind them. 

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” I sigh. 

“What frying pan? And what’s the fire?” Rose enquires.

“Frying pan was the Opera House, the fire is this,” I gesture to the teenagers walking before me. Rose’s expression turns grave and she nods. 

“I see. D’you think we’ll go back? To school, I mean?” she asks. I shrug. 

“Sure. I don’t think they’d force us to stay here. I figure we’ll have to sign a contract saying we keep quiet about this, but yeah,” I reply. 

“You watch way too many procedural cop shows,” Rose shakes her head. I shove her lightly, and she pushes back, and the tension and fear that’s built up from seeing Steve and Tony fight lessens. 

“We’re here,” Tony calls suddenly, breaking the quiet. ‘Here’ is actually a metal cube about the size of a modest living room, with a single glass pane on the sliding door. A keypad is on the side, which beeps green and opens the door after Tony taps in an eight-digit code. The interior of the room is all white, the walls, ceiling and floor made of the same hexagonal-patterned material. A bed sits in the far corner, a TV in the other, a sink on the left wall and a small adjoining room with a toilet and shower. 

“SHIELD upgrade,” Tony comments, tapping a wall. “Adapts to the inhabitant’s strengths or capabilities. They used it for their alien mutants.” 

“Alien mutants?” I ask weakly, as Steve gently lays Bucky on the bed. 

“Classified. Level Seven,” Clint cuts in, glancing meaningfully at Tony. 

“Right. Yeah, gotta remember those SHIELD protocols,” Tony retorts in a saccharine voice. Clint looks like he’s going to reply, then shuts his mouth and leaves the room. With a nodded cue from Natasha, the rest of us leave the room and Tony shuts the door. 

“Follow me,” he orders tersely, and we accompany him to an observatory room. Computer screens with monitors that have already picked up Bucky’s pulse and heart rate and video feeds of the room from every angle surround us. 

“So,” Steve is the first to speak, as we all watch Bucky’s prone form with minute attention. “I think I need to make myself clear. Tony, I understand that this is your house, and I respect that, and if you aren’t okay with Bucky being here, we’ll leave. But-”

“But that’s not what I’m not okay with. I want the Asset, the  _ HYDRA  _ Asset to be taken care of, to get justice for the deaths he caused,” Tony interrupts. 

“Okay, then we’ll leave,” Steve said decidedly. 

“No. You can’t leave while you’re in teenage form,” Natasha cautioned. “Can you imagine what would happen if people found out that Earth’s mightiest heros are a bunch of adolescents? Not only would every criminal organization from here to Bosnia would descend on us, we’d lose what little support of the government we had after the Triskelion.”

“Yeah, and do you think I’m gonna let the guy responsible for my parents’ death stroll around Central Park eating ice cream and feeding the ducks?” Tony snorts. “No. I get revenge on the monster.” 

“Dammit, Tony,” Steve slams his fist on the table, making keyboards and monitoring instruments jump and rattle. His face is dark and his eyes are flashing with fury. 

“Bucky is  _ not  _ a monster, or the Winter Soldier, or the Asset. That wasn’t  _ him,  _ and you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’ll let you hurt him,” he shouts. Tony’s eyes narrow and he steps closer to Steve, squaring his shoulders. It’s almost laughable, that despite they’ve both become smaller, Steve is still a good foot and a half taller than Tony. 

“So that’s it then,” Tony declares, forced to crane his neck to meet the fiery blue eyes of Captain America. “There’s nothing special about you or Metal Arm over there, and I’m not scared of you. I’ll take both of you, if that’s what it takes to get what’s due.”    
“What’s due?” Steve’s voice raises.

“Tony, if you weren’t being a total idiot about this, you’d see that fighting is the last thing we need,” Clint snaps. Natasha furrows her brow and nods, looking between Steve and Tony with a calculating frown. 

“Guys?” Rose says softly. I follow her pointed finger to one of the computer screens, where I can see Bucky sitting up. He is stiff as a board, eyes staring blankly forward. 

“He’s awake,” I mutter, watching with fascination. He tilts his head to the side, as if listening for something, and his face is picked up in astonishing clarity by the camera. Intelligent blue eyes, strong features, dark, shaggy hair-he looks painfully human. Until this point, I’d agreed with Tony. From what little I knew of the Winter Soldier, he sounded like a threat. It was naive of Steve to believe that something like HYDRA wouldn’t try to pull something like this, to use Steve’s link to Bucky as a weapon against the Avengers. And especially with them in such a vulnerable position, it was the perfect way to break apart the team that had rescued Rose and me from Bosnia. But here was this boy, the same age as I, looking as lost and confused and scared as I felt. 

Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are carrying me out of the room and down the hallway and to the keypad of the metal cube where Bucky is housed. I close my eyes for a moment, recalling the pattern in which Tony had typed in the number sequence. With bated breath, I tap in what I think was the code and to my delight, it slides open. I stand for a moment behind the door, conveniently realizing then that entering the room with a possibly deadly assassin was a really, really bad idea. Too late now, though, as I can see Bucky tense up in response to the noise of the door opening. I step into the room, hearing the door shut behind me. 

“Hi,” I say quietly, keeping about ten feet of distance between me and the boy sitting on the bed. He doesn’t respond, so I take a step forward, despite the screaming voice of reason in my head telling me to get the hell out of the room. Why this voice of reason hadn’t told me to just stay put in the observatory room I cannot tell you. 

“I’m Isla Smith. Y-you’re Bucky Barnes, right?” 

“Barnes. Yes. Hello. I’m Bucky,” his voice is deep but strangely comforting. Still wary, but slowly, inexplicably less terrified, I take another step forward.

“You probably shouldn’t do that,” he says. 

“What? Do what? Why?” I squeak. 

“Come closer. Don’t do that. I might hurt you. The metal man is right,” he doesn’t sound angry. Or sarcastic, or even defeated. He’s just stating the facts as he sees them, and that deadpanned voice is what breaks what is either the remains of my sanity and will for self-preservation. Whichever it was, I find myself kneeling before him, my hands hovering over his knees. I notice that he’s tensed up, and I raise my palms upward.

“Hey, I’m not here to hurt you,” I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way, but is probably a mix between awkward and creepy. 

“Yeah, but I’m gonna hurt you,” he answers quietly. “I hurt people. Even if I don’t want to. That’s why I have to go. But I wanted…” he breaks off and looks at me pleadingly. I frown, truly distressed.

“What is it? What did you want?” My reservations about his past, who or what Tony said he was, is pushed to the back of my mind. Here is someone in front of me, who I can tell suffered far more than I could possibly imagine, who had the rights of his very existence taken and violated and I’d be damned if I didn’t help him. 

I remember a conversation about ethics I had with my father once, that if I were in a burning house with a man who had killed two innocents and a beautiful painting, which I would choose. I said the painting, obviously. A work of art could hardly compare to whatever animal that murderer had been reduced to. And yet, for all my righteous certainty, I felt a flicker of doubt. As was always the case with ethical questions, no matter which answer you choose, it always feels like there’s another answer that you were supposed to choose. My father gave me the same unsatisfactory answer most adults are accustomed to give; something along the lines of “you must find the answer within yourself” and like any self-respecting teenager, I scoffed and forgot all about the conversation until now. It was so easy, to write off the mind and soul of a person when he or she was hypothetical, when you couldn’t see the pain and the guilt in their eyes. 

“I wanted,” he stops again, and I look at him expectantly. Deep down, I know that I can’t force him to talk. Hell, I can’t force him to do anything, but I want so badly to hear him talk, because maybe it will give me the validation that I am doing the right thing, and not signing my own death warrant. 

“I wanted to see Steve,” he says finally. I give a quick smile, making sure it reaches my eyes and doesn’t give away how overjoyed I am at hearing him give an answer.  

“Yeah, I figured. You guys were friends, right?” He nods, and on impulse, I settle my hands on his knees. He jerks back for a moment, and I tense up immediately but don’t move away. After a moment, he slowly relaxes, his eyes glued to my hands pressing on the black fabric of his pants. 

“Back in the 40s. It was a long time ago, and sometimes....Sometimes I don’t remember all that I should, but...But I’m getting a lot better. I’m getting better,” he says, nodding as if to convince himself. 

“Yeah. You’re pretty good for...For whatever you were before,” I agree quickly, kicking myself silently for bringing up his alter-ego. Because that’s the only explanation I can give -- some sort of schizophrenic disorder -- to ascertain as to how this quiet, polite boy is a mass murderer who killed Tony Stark’s parents and countless others. Either way, I doubt Bucky’d like to get any reminders about the Winter Soldier. He gives a dry chuckle and I smile in spite of myself.

“Pretty good. I can’t say I’ve done this on my own, but...I’m better now,” he says. I open my mouth to reply, but stop when I hear the door opening. 

“Smith, get out,” a voice barks harshly. It’s Stark, and  _ holy bananas he sounds angry,  _ I think ruefully as I get to my feet and walk to the edge of the room, slowly starting to remember the gravity of my situation. I am about to leave when I turn to wave at Bucky. He’s watching me go with an odd expression on his face, one that I can’t read. Then I feel the metal fingers of Tony’s suit yanking me out of the room as the door hisses shut in front of me.


	17. I Watch Isla Get Yelled At (Rose's POV)

We all do stupid things. For some people, this happens very rarely, and only when all of their better judgement has deserted them. For others, this happens very frequently and is a direct result of what one might call foolishness. Which really just means stupidity. In this particular case, my dear friend and roommate decided to display a collection of qualities that fall under the category of complete idiocy. She gets this look on her face when she’s about to do something, and it’s just the right amount of crazy and stubborn for me to know that no amount of yelling is going to convince her otherwise. The stupid thing was, of course, leaving the room where all the super-strong superheroes were, and entering the room with the super-strong supervillain was. No one even noticed she was gone, which sort of surprised me. I expected that someplace as high-tech as this would have alarms going off if Isla just strolled into the containment unit, but apparently not. I’d considered going after her, but the determined look on her face coupled with this gut feeling I couldn’t shake made me think that Bucky/Winter Soldier dude was actually an okay guy. Yeah, he looked like a Russian version of Kylo Ren, but Steve trusted him. I owed him my life, even. It only seemed fair that I give him the benefit of the doubt. 

I look around at the room of Avengers. They are still arguing. 

“Steve, you need to back off,” Mr Stark shouts. 

“He’s my best friend, Tony,” Steve shoots back. It’s sort of funny, when I remember them saving me and Isla the other night, and now everyone except for Steve is shorter than I am. Even Bucky. That makes me feel safer too. Yeah, Bucky was a terrifying guy, but if he so much as touched a hair on Isla’s head I’m confident that I could break him in half. Like a twig.

“I’m sorry, but what the hell is Isla doing?” Clint interrupts, his voice cutting through the rest of the squabbling. Everyone falls dead silent as they all looked at the monitor. There’s Isla, kneeling in front of the angsty metal-armed teenage assassin. Natasha swears softly, and Tony’s fists clench. 

“Get her out of there,” he snarls. Natasha starts for the door but Steve gives her a pleading look. Perhaps it’s the anguish on his face, or maybe the unspoken threat of his incredible strength, but Natasha stops in her tracks. 

“Wait,” Steve gestures at the screen. Tony pressed a button, and suddenly we can hear what’s being said. 

“I wanted to see Steve,” Bucky’s voice crackles over the speaker. Steve’s face swiftly changes from shock, to sadness and then to hope. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Isla replies quietly. “You guys were friends, right?” She reaches out to touch him and he recoils like a snake. Natasha’s hand flies to the waistband of her jeans, where I see the outline of a gun behind her shirt. I feel cold, and wonder desperately if I should have done more to stop Isla, made her stay inside where she was safe. But as quickly as he had moved away, Bucky relaxes and lets my friend press her hands to his knees. I heard Natasha whisper something to Clint in Russian, but the archer makes no reply. His brow is furrowed as he watches Isla with a mixture of fear and admiration. My heart swells a little as I turned back to Isla. Clearly, the two spies were impressed with her progress with the once-Winter Soldier. 

“I can’t say that I’ve done it on my own,” Bucky was saying. “But I’m better now.” He gives Isla a tentative smile, which she returns with alacrity. I feel the tension in the room lessen with the exchange, and release the breath I realized I’d been holding. 

“Well I’ve had enough of this bull,” Tony spits out suddenly, cutting through the silence in the observatory room. Pushing past Clint and Natasha, he presses a button on his suit and his helmet slides down to cover his face. 

“I’m going in to get Smith out of there and teach Barnes that he can say all the touchy-feely crap he wants, but I’m gonna-” Tony’s tirade is cut short when Steve’s fist clenches around the Iron Man (or Boy?)’s neck. The look on the super soldier's face is nothing I’d seen before, filled with decades of grief and desperation creasing his young face. Despite their change in size and age, Steve is still clearly Tony’s superior in strength. We can hear Stark gasping for breath inside his helmet, and I catch Natasha glancing worriedly at Clint, who has strung his bow but seems torn over where to shoot. Suddenly, Tony sends some sort of electric current through the suit that makes Steve let go of him with a cry of pain. Before Steve can react, Tony deals him a sound blow on the side of the head. Steve slides to the floor, a trickle of blood staining his blond hair red. He lunges forward as Tony goes to leave the room, the globes of energy in the palms of his hands glowing with fierce force. 

“Please, Tony,” Steve begs, blood running down his forehead. Tony pauses, looking down at the boy clutching at his feet. “Even-even when I had nothing...I had Bucky.” Steve’s words hang in the air unanswered as Tony shakes him off and exits the observatory room. Dejected, Steve lets his head slump and the room is filled with a very different sort of silence. I step forward to see if he was okay, but Natasha’s arm stops me. We wait to hear the sounds of a struggle, none of us able to bring ourselves to look at the monitor. But when no sound filters through the speakers, a flicker of hope begins to burn in Steve’s eyes and he gets to his feet. 

“Maybe Tony-” he starts to say before the hiss of the opening door cuts him off. Tony, still encased in his suit stands in the doorway holding Isla by the back of her shirt. 

“You guys talk to her. I’ll be in the lab,” was all he said before quitting the room. We stand in stunned silence for a moment, trying to process the reasons for Tony’s mercy. Natasha is the first to recover, turning to Isla. 

“We’re going back to the living room to talk,” she says. Her voice is measured and calm but Isla’s face pales. We file out of the observatory room without another word, Isla glancing back at the monitor where Bucky is sitting quietly, his hands folded in his lap. 

“Don’t you  _ ever  _ do that again,” I murmur, falling into step with her. “You could have died, for God’s sake why didn’t you listen?”

“I didn’t die though, did I?” Isla retort. She turned to face me and her eyes were blazing with determination. “I know that I’m doing the right thing here.” 

“If you say so,” I snort dubiously. 

“I know so,” she says with confidence. I decide to drop the subject until we reach the living room. The teenage Avengers settle themselves on the couches with Isla sitting in front of them, and I stand at Natasha’s shoulder. 

“So,” Natasha says. 

“So,” Isla repeats, lifting her chin just a fraction and staring straight back at the redhead assassin.

“In all my years of training, in institutions that would give you nightmares and against enemies far more powerful than you can possibly imagine, I have never seen anyone do something so-” Natasha begins softly but her voice rises to an almost shouting pitch, her green eyes flashing with fury. 

“So gutsy,” Clint finishes. Natasha shoots him a look but he shrugs. “You managed to get the Winter Soldier to talk. I don’t think, in all honesty, that anyone else could have done that. Stark wants to kill him, Steve wants to make friendship bracelets with him, and me and Nat are the best interrogators there are. But there was no way we were going to make any headway with him.”  
“ _Clint_ ,” Natasha hisses. “What are you doing?! This is supposed to be a reprimand.”

“I’m getting to that, Tasha,” Clint replies, turning to Isla. “Now, if things had gone sideways, you would have died.” Isla barely conceals her dismay and Clint raises an eyebrow. “This ain’t high school, and we aren’t running a daycare, either. We can’t keep looking out for you guys, making sure you’re all right. We’ll do our best, but you’re on your own for the most part. Make your own decisions, but we’re not responsible for what happens if you get hurt. This is what you sacrifice when you make these kind of...Pigheaded decisions.” To my surprise, Isla’s face is split with a bright beam of a smile. 

“I understand,” she says gravely, and I can tell, to my own relief, that she does. “And thank you for your clemency.” 

“Oh no, this is not me being clement,” Natasha assures her. “You are not to go near Barnes again.” Isla opens her mouth to object. 

“No. Absolutely not,” Natasha says before she can speak. 

“I thought I could make my own decisions?” Isla shoots back. 

“So long as they don’t affect other people,” Natasha replies tartly. “And seeing Barnes is. You leave him alone.” Isla’s eyes narrow and her jaw sets. She leaves the room, her back ramrod straight and hands squeezed tight so the Avengers can’t see how badly her hands were shaking. I follow her down the hallway and into the elevator, pretending for the sake of her pride not to hear the short, frustrated sobs she makes as she punches the buttons for our room. When we reach our destination, she has composed herself and stopped crying, wiping her tears away with a practiced hand. I sit on her bed, watching as she runs her wrists under cold water and pressed her fingers beneath her eyes so that the redness would go away. Finally, she sits down next to me, folding her legs beneath her. I wait patiently for her to begin speaking, knowing that any prompting would only distract her. 

“I don’t know why I’m so upset,” she begins shakily. “I don’t even know Bucky that well. I don’t know any of these people very well. But-but I want Natasha to respect me, y’know? She seems like she’s been through so much, and her mark of approval in talking to him would have been nice. And Clint, he’s like an older brother and so’s Steve, and I know he doesn’t approve of what I did, but they know that I got him to talk, and I’m pretty sure they’d do the exact same thing if they were in my position.”

“They’re trained professionals, though,” I point out gently. “Even if they were in your position-which I’m not saying isn’t likely-they’re far better prepared to defend themselves against Bucky. I agree with Natasha on some degree-what you did was very reckless.”

“But you didn’t see his face,” she protests fiercely. “He’s hurting, Rose. Hurt deep inside and I think, in some crazy way, that I can fix that, and I want to fix that.”

“You don’t even know him-you met him today,” I remind her. 

“I know but...I can’t help feeling like...There was a reason that he decided to talk to me,” Isla says with growing certainty. “He had plenty of time to attack me, push me away, ignore me, whatever. But we were getting somewhere, he was talking when Stark showed up. And I’m sorry about his parents, I truly am, but that wasn’t Bucky. And Tony trying to go after him is simply childish. If I had a gun to my head, and was told to kill two innocents…”

“You wouldn’t,” I cut in firmly. “I won’t let you finish that. But I agree with you-the Winter Soldier’s actions should not be ones Bucky must be punished for. Those are Tony’s parents, though, and it’s probably very difficult for him to even begin to forgive the man who killed his parents.”

“It would be difficult,” Isla concedes, nodding her head. “Either way, I don’t see why I’m not allowed to talk to Bucky.” Her breathing has steadied, and her frustration has melted into an iron-set calmness. 

“So what are you going to do?” I venture. 

“I’m going to-” A knock on the door interrupts Isla. I cross the room and press the button to open it revealing Steve, blood still crusted on his temple. 

“Are you alright?” I blurt out before he could say anything. 

“What?” He asks absently, scratching at the scab. 

“Your head,” I gesture awkwardly.

“Oh. Right,” he touches the cut a little more gently. “I’ll have a bruise but it will heal quickly ‘cause of the serum.” 

“That’s good,” I say quietly. _His eyes are so blue,_ I think vaguely. Then I silently curse myself for how stupid I sound. I don’t know how long we stand there, staring, but I do know that all the self-consciousness or nervousness I usually feel when people stare I don’t feel with him. Rather, I have this overwhelming urge to step a little closer, bask in the warm intensity of his gaze for as long as I can. Isla’s cough jerk me out of my fantasies, and I quickly glance at Steve, blushing furiously. Steve looks just as flustered as I, but when he sees Isla’s face tinged with worry he sobers.   
“I was just in the Observatory with Nat and Clint,” he informs us. “And we were trying to talk to Bucky.”

“Trying?” Isla raises an eyebrow, clearly still angry about her dismissal. 

“Trying,” Steve agrees, grimacing. “And failing, ultimately. Nat tried everything and so did Clint. But nothing, no reaction. Like he was carved out of marble. He-he wouldn’t even talk to me.” Steve sounds so distraught that Isla’s cold gaze softens. 

“So why are you here?” she asks curtly. 

“We need you,” Steve says after a moment of hesitation. He looks at her beseechingly. “It took some arm-twisting but...Tony’s given us twenty-four hours to convince him that Bucky’s changed. Him sitting there like a statue isn’t helping anything and...And he was the only one to talk to you.” There’s a hint of jealousy in Steve’s voice, something that hardly suprises me given the circumstances, but nevertheless raises Isla’s eyebrows. 

“All right then,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go talk to Frosty the Soviet Assassin.”

 


	18. A Lot of Therapy and Only a Little Chocolate (Isla's POV)

There’s a certain type of feeling everyone has in the pit of their stomach when standing on a high-dive and looking down into the water below. Some of it’s excitement because you’re dying to do it, some of it’s the urge to get it over with so you can live with the satisfaction of doing the high-dive, some of it’s nerves because everyone’s watching, but most of it’s the fear that somehow the water is going to morph into solid concrete and you’re going to become a grease spot. While you know that the latter feeling is irrational, it’s still there, and it’s what makes your palms sweat and your arms prickle with gooseflesh and makes the decision to jump off the bit of plastic you’re standing on that much harder. 

Basically, I just described my state of being when standing before the door that led to Bucky’s cell. While Natasha, Clint and Steve had prepped me for going into the room, even adding a layer of what looked an awful lot like chaimail to wear beneath my sweatshirt, it did little to calm my frayed nerves. Rose watched the whole process with wide eyes, remaining totally silent. I knew she was absorbing all the information Clint and Natasha threw at us with Steve’s occasional few-worded addition about all they knew on the Winter Soldier. I should have been proud, I suppose, or even awed at this incredible chance to be part of a spy operation, but as so often happens when faced with great danger and responsibility, everything else fades away. So here I stand before the cell door, battling the immediate emotions in my mind. 

On the one hand, Bucky might turn into the super-scary supervillain and snap my neck with his two little fingers. On the other hand, if I didn’t go into the room I’d be admitting to Natasha that I wasn’t ‘ready’ (um, as if you can be ready to interview a supersoldier on all the torture tactics the Soviet Union practiced on him forty years ago) and I was too weak to follow through with what I said I could accomplish. On the other other hand, there was something  _ there.  _ Between Bucky and me, a connection that I couldn’t explain or begin to understand, but I knew that I couldn’t leave him in that cell, knew that I couldn’t condemn him to whatever fate Tony Stark demanded as vengeance. It is this final feeling that is the strongest, and the one that conquers the others. Screwing my courage to the sticking place, I press the release button on the door and step in. Bucky looks up immediately, and while his response shows that he is just as twitchy as I am, it’s oddly comforting to have someone as nervous as I am. 

“Hello Bucky,” I greet, praising God for the steadiness of my voice. 

“Hello,” he says in return, his voice completely unaccented, light and polite. 

“May I sit?” I gesture to the chair by the cot he sits on. He nod and crosses his legs beneath him so that I can maneovure past him and sit down. 

“Steve came in here a little while ago,” Bucky informs me. 

“Yeah, he told me,” I admit. Total transparency seems to be the way to go-Bucky is only going to trust me if I am as honest as I can be. 

“And the archer,” Bucky adds. “And little Natalia. She has grown older.”  
“You know her?” I ask, surprised. 

“In the Red Room,” Bucky confirms. 

“Red Room?” I frown. I’d seen the name before, but couldn’t remember where. 

“The Red Room was,” he breaks off and I find myself being closely examined by the icy blue eyes across from me. 

“If I am to speak freely,” he says finally. “I must be assured that none of this is recorded. No video, audio, nothing.”

“We-I expected this might happen,” I say slowly, casting my memory back to what Natasha had told me to do should he ask something like this. 

“And I will not speak until this is done,” I would have expected aggression, threatening, from what I had read on the Winter Soldier profile made by SHIELD, but while his words are delivered with firm resolution, Bucky’s tone is otherwise neutral. It’s clear he doesn’t intend to speak until his request is granted, but he won’t cause violence to get it. My eyes flick briefly to the wall behind which Natasha, Steve, Clint and Rose stand in the Observatory and I give them a nod. 

“He will not harm me,” I say, looking at Bucky for confirmation. He nods, scooting over to the far side of his bed and raising his hands, palms up in a gesture of peace. I wait a moment before turning back to him,

“They should have turned the recording devices off.” 

“How am I to know for sure?” Bucky demands, his eyes suddenly suspicious. The hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. “They could have planted something on you, a wire or comm or something. And who’s to know they didn’t just keep recording anyway?” As he speaks, he begins moving towards me. I fight every instinct to turn tail and run screaming out of the room. Judging by the desperation in Steve’s eyes when he came to me for help, I am his only hope of saving Bucky. 

“Guess you’ll just have to trust me,” I say, trying to keep my voice as cool and non-terrified as possible. With the swiftness of a lunging predator, Bucky’s nose is suddenly inches from mine. 

“I could snap your pretty little neck right now,” he snarls, all courtesy and control gone. Now I can easily imagine the ruthless Winter Soldier, and give an involuntary shiver of fright before meeting his gaze. The blue eyes, so much like Steve’s and yet painfully not so because of the tortured grief that lie behind it, glare at me, and oddly enough, it is these eyes that give me courage.

“Guess you’ll just have to trust me,” I repeat. “As I am trusting you not to do so now.” My answer seems to pass some sort of test because the tension in Bucky’s form melts away and he settles back on the bed. 

“So the Red Room was a KGB operated experiment in the ‘60s. But I-the Winter Soldier-was made twenty years before,” he begins. 

♕ ♞ ♛ ♘

Hours later, I press the release button for the door and trudge into the Observatory room. As soon as I walk through the door, Rose runs to me and hugs me tightly. 

“I had to push the button that turned off audio and video recording an-and I couldn’t see you,” she whispers into my hair. “God I was so worried. Please don’t make me do that again.” 

“I’m sorry,” I reply, surprised as tears suddenly start to prick my eyes. It’s not for any particular reason, simply that I’m just so overwhelmed with the wealth of information I had obtained from Bucky. 

“How’d it go?” Clint asks gently, walking over to Rose and me. I break away from Rose’s fierce embrace and turn to him. 

“It went okay. He-he told me everything he knows about HYDRA and the Red Room,” I say, still astounded by the experience. At this, I see Natasha shudder and kick myself internally. If the Red Room was where Natasha was made, it probably wasn’t exactly a place of happy memories for her. 

“He can tell me-us-more, but he wrote the details on paper so he wouldn’t forget and put it in a backpack,” I add. 

“And the backpack is where?” Clint presses. 

“Bosnia. A safehouse,” I reply. 

“Shame their Opera House was blown up,” a voice comments. I whirled around and there stood Tony Stark, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Tony,” we all say in unison, in varying degrees of wariness. 

“Tis I,” he affirms sardonically. “While you’ve been interviewing the cold-hearted murderer of my innocent parents, I’ve been doing something actually  _ useful. _ ”

“For once,” Clint snarks, with more venom than the sarcastic archer usually gives. The cracks in the perfect facade of the Avengers start to show once more, and the tension in the room immediately thickens. 

“And I’ve found something...Something bad,” Tony says, pretending to ignore Clint’s tone. 

“Yeah?” Steve inquires coolly. His eyes, however, are blazing with barely-concealed anger at Tony’s offhand manner. 

“Yeah,” Tony replies, equally as cool. “And the last thing left to do is decide whether or not to acquit the killer I have sitting in the box. How’d the interrogation go?”

“It wasn’t an interrogation, Tony,” I interject. “It was an interview. I asked questions, questions I made clear Bucky did not have to answer, but he gave them anyway. To, I believe, the advancement and aid of not only SHIELD but the work of the Avengers. 

“And how would you know that?” Tony demand. 

“Level Eight clearance was given to her,” Clint supplies. The memory of Natasha sliding a stack of manila folders across the table in the Observatory rises to my mind and I wince at the painful amount of paperwork I’d read, trying to absorb as much as I could. Never in my life had I felt pressure to perform like that, and I wasn’t so sure I’d like to do it again. 

“Memorize them,” she’d said. “The manual on interrogation is three times as long as any of these files put together, but I’m trusting that you use your common sense not to say certain things. I don’t have to tell you that the wrong word will end with your life.” Lovely girl, Natasha. Always so kind. 

“Okay, I really don’t care about these stupid clearance levels. I can hack SHIELD in my sleep anyway, but there’s valuable intel on there and considering what I’ve just-” Tony begins.

“Sepcial circumstances,” Natasha interrupts. “I didn’t like it either.” She nods, in agreement with Tony’s look of outrage and I feel a wave of withering distaste for the redhead. I did what she couldn’t-why was she so dead-set against me?

“So what did he say?” Tony asks tiredly. 

“Intel on everything from the Red-” I start to say. 

“No,” Tony cuts across me, pointing to Clint and Natasha. “You two answer.” The two spies shift uncomfortably.

“What?”Tony’s voice hold a note of caution against the coming answer. 

“He asked us to turn off recording devices. Audio, video, everything,” Natasha says finally. To quell the coming storm gathering in Tony’s eyes, Clint adds hastily,

“We had no other choice. He wasn’t going to talk.”

“Guess it’s a credit to you that you didn’t get yourself killed,” Tony looks briefly at me, eyebrows raised. I crack a weak smile. 

“Guess it is.”

“Well your time’s up. Convince me not to go in there with my suit and I’ll let him stew until I can find a better use for him,” Tony turns to me. 

“You said she had twelve hours,” Steve protests. His helplessness in this situation isn’t lost on him, and he sounds resigned even as he gives Tony a pleading glance. 

“Less now,” Tony shrugs. “Timetable’s changed.” Strange to think I’d once found this capricious, self-centered man someone that I could like. I suck my cheeks in and stare hard at the ground, controlling myself before answering,

“I’ll let him show you.” I leave the Observatory without another word and stride into Bucky’s cell. He’s lying on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. When I walk in, he doesn’t move, but I can feel him tense, readying himself for whatever is about to happen. 

“You’re angry,” it isn’t a question. 

“Mr Stark,” I turn exaggeratedly to the wall. ““Has asked me to convince him that you-” I stop talking and bite my lip, wondering what I should say next, and how I should phrase it. 

“That I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky finishes for me. 

“Yes,” I nod emphatically, a wave of gratitude at his understandng washing over me. Bucky turns to the exact wall which had the double mirror into the observatory room and starts to speak,

“I’m not. The Winter Soldier, that is. Not anymore. After the fall of the Triskelion I began to remember...Things. It took some time, but now I can remember every death, every life I ended. I remember Howard and Maria Stark and while I know that there is no way that I can fill the hold their death has left in Mr Stark’s life, I promise that I will do everything I can to assist SHIELD and the Avengers so long as they do the same for me.” 

“Is that what you wanted, Stark?” I spit out, looking defiantly at the wall. “If not, you can take your pretty little suit and shove it up your-”

“Buck?” the pain and hope injected into the one-sylable word makes it clear who the voice echoing around the cell belongs to. 

“Steve?” Bucky’s eyes are suddenly wild, grief fracturing the blue iris. His previous reservation is starting to crumble, and I ball my hands into fists, letting the nails cut into my skin to quell the panic rising in me. 

“Steve,” I echo warningly. 

“I tried to talk to you,” Steve sounds plaintative. “Why-why’d you only talk to Isla?”

“I had to know I could trust myself before talking to you,” Bucky’s voice is quiet but it shakes with emotion. “I had to know that you wouldn’t trigger any sort of memories.” 

“And it won’t, right?” Steve is an uncertain child, pleading for reassurance. “That-that’s behind you, right? Right, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky gives a small smile. “Yeah. I can remember now, but it doesn’t hurt so much that I can’t control myself.” 

“I understand the feeling,” Clint says. 

“You do?” Bucky sounds surprised.

“Yeah. Asgardian god of mischief and trickery,” I can hear Clint’s dry smile.

“Not something I’d wish on anyone,” Bucky shakes his head. 

“Me too,” Clint agrees. Bucky nods his thanks at the disembodied voice and I let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“So you willing to follow Captain America again?” Steve breaks the silence. The smile that spreads across Bucky’s face makes me relax my hands, rubbing at the red-blue cuts beneath the skin. 

“I’m willing to follow that skinny kid from Brooklyn,” he grins at the wall. Steve’s whoop of joy and a ‘he remembers!’, and then what is definitely Rose gasping in surprise crackles over the speakers. 

“Isla get up here,” Tony doesn’t sound happy, but he doesn’t sound angry, either. 

“Oh, before you leave,” Bucky calls out. I turn to him and he’s standing by his bed. I cock my head towards him as he beckons. I approach him warily, wondering what it is he wants.  _ Was all of this just a show? _ A voice murmurs in my head.  _ Is he just going to kill me now? _ Then Bucky’s fingers curl around my arm and he pulls me to him. His lips were centimeters from my ear and my skin erupts in goosebumps by his proximity. The sudden intimacy comes out of nowhere, but then, I remembered with a shudder, you have to be close to someone to snap their neck. 

“Be careful,” he whispers. “There’s a reason I didn’t want everything I said to be on record.”

“What?” I stutter. 

“HYDRA was planning something big. I found a warehouse with research and that’s when I knew I had to go find Steve, had to protect him. Bosnia wasn’t a freak accident-it was meant for the Avengers,” the goosebumps settle in, icy chill creeping up my spine and then I realize something. 

“You!” I say, louder than I intended. “It was you, at the Opera House?” Bucky shakes his head.  “No, I don’t think you’ve got it right,” he frowns.  

“No,” I fling back with growing certainty. “You saved my life.” 

“And this was your thank you,” Bucky relents. “But don’t make it for naught. Be careful. I don’t know why you’re tangled in this but…”

“Isla step away from Mr Barnes now if you want him to keep his head,” Tony’s voice threatens sharply. I comply immediately, reluctantly moving away from Bucky. “Better. Get in here. Now.” 

“Be careful,” Bucky warns again as the door slides shut. I give him an almost imperceptible nod  before making my way into the Observatory. Once there, I meet Rose’s worried glance with a quick smile. 

“What was that about?” Natasha demands, her red manicured fingers around my arm in the same fashion as Bucky’s just moments ago. I recoil and regret it as her green eyes darken. 

“Just that he, um,” I stall nervously. 

“I could read their lips,” Steve says. I go cold, wondering if Bucky didn’t want the Avengers to hear his message because he didn’t know who he suspected as HYDRA and who he wanted to protect. But no, Captain America wasn’t HYDRA. He couldn’t be. 

“He wanted to thank her for helping him.” 

“Y-yeah,” I nod. “Cause he was the one who saved me at the Opera House.”

“Make sure that what he has to say goes on record from now on,” Tony purses his lips. 

“Tony, we can’t put him on a wire his whole life,” Steve protests. 

“Yes, we can,” Tony retorts. 

“Tony, I’ve been under mind control and I’m telling you that the stuff I did, I’m not proud of-I killed people too-but you’ve forgiven me just the same,” Clint points out. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t kill my parents,” Tony says coldly.

“Tony,”Natasha starts. 

“Tony what,” he mimics. “I’m not killing him, am I? That’s a step up.”

“You have to stop blaming him for deaths that you haven’t properly grieved about. The guilt that you feel has nothing to do with Bucky,” I say. I’m not sure if my words will strike a chord in Tony, but I certainly had to try. 

“I’m sorry, what do I have to be guilty about? They were murdered by that guy,” Tony points. 

“You never let go. That’s not on him, that’s on you,” I answer, a harsh taste that I am all too accustomed to developing in the back of my throat. I swallow and level my gaze with his. I wonder if I’m pushing to far and know that if I am, it isn’t going to end with a round of therapy and some chocolate. 

“Isla,” Clint chides. “I don’t care what you-”

“Yes,” there’s something raw and desperate in Tony’s eyes. 

“I’m not wrong, am I?” I ask softly. He shakes his head, and the action gives me courage to finish my argument. “Tell me that I’m wrong and I’ll back off.”  Taking his silence as my answer, I continue, 

“Your regret and your guilt isn’t going to go away when you’ve taken your vengeance with Bucky. It’s going to stay with you and haunt you, so for God’s sake don’t push it on an innocent.”

“Innocent?” Tony barks out, his previous helplessness dissipating. “He’s hardly innocent.”

“Maybe not,” I concede. “But in his line of business-hell, in your line of business-I doubt anyone is. Are you innocent, Tony?” There is a long silence after this, that stretches on for what seems like an eternity. To an outside observor, it might look like Tony and I are engaged in some sort of battle of the wits, but it is Tony and himself who is doing the fighting. I’m just watching. Finally, Tony breaks my gaze and looks around the room. 

“I think I figured out why we’re teenagers,” he says quietly. I blink, and realize that in the confusion, I’d forgotten that the Avengers were no more than high school students. Maybe it’s because they are forced to treat me and Rose as equals that it didn’t seem so jarring.  Whatever the reason, I am grateful he seemed to have let the matter of Bucky rest for a while. 

“Let’s head down to the lab,” Tony suggests. Everyone relaxe at the proposal and make sounds of approval, filing out on by one until only Clint and I are left.

“You did good,” he says. “Real good, Isla.”

“Thanks,” I blush. Clint’s compliment goes a long way, confirming the desperate hope I’d been clinging to that I was doing the right thing. 

“The best damn field agent I’ve trained in under twelve hours,” he chuckles. A warm feeling spreads through my chest and the fear from Bucky’s words and the exhaustion from the interview start to melt away. 

“I bet there aren’t many of those,” I laugh. 

“There aren’t,”  he says simply. “Tasha and I were thinking...Well, we’ll tell you after Tony briefs us.” I resist the urge to demand an answer, wanting to get rid of the mixed excitement and apprehension in me at his words. 

“Sounds good,” I shrug casually. “We’d better get going, though.” 

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. He digs around in his pocket for a moment before tossing me a bar of chocolate. The wrapper is written in Cyrillic and I look at him in confusion. 

“Picked this up on our way out,” Clint answers, a twinkle in his eye. “Call it a souvenir of your first mission.”

“First?” I call after him, hurrying to catch up. 

“First,” he repeats, smiling mysteriously. “Good talk with Tony, too. You’ll make an excellent interrogator someday.” Then the archer quickens his stride, leaving me stumbling behind, unwrapping the chocolate and nibbling at the sweet milk and cocoa.

“In the end,” I mutter to myself as I enter the lab. “It did end with therapy and chocolate.”


	19. The Laboratory (Isla's POV)

The lab was another place of boundless wonder within Stark Tower. Floor-to-ceiling windows, clear glass floors of a three-story playground for the mathematically and scientifically inclined. Research equipment of the highest grade stood scattered around various work tables, tablets and holograms with words and equations scribbled on them giving a bluish illumination to the darkened room. 

At Tony’s entrance, the lights flicker on, flooding the laboratory with blinding brightness. I grimace at the white light, waiting until my eyes adjust. Tony walks confidently over to the center of the first floor, where the mess seems to be the most concentrated. The rest of us pick our way gingerly through the expensive glassware, electronic devices lying with abandon on tables and chairs and thick cords snaking around the room in a complicated network to power Tony’s various projects. A snap of his fingers prompt a giant blue hologram screen to pop up between Tony and the other Avengers. His previous emotional turmoil quieted and the strife between him and Steve on hold, the cohesion between Iron Man and the rest of his team returns.

“I decided to first take a look at the blood samples all of you so kindly provided a couple of weeks ago,” Tony begins. “Diseases or viruses could be found in the antigens in the red blood cells, and I could quickly analyze how to combat it from there.”

“Sorry, we didn't give you any blood,” Rose interrupts. “Did we?” She looks at me uncertainly and I shake my head. 

“No, though I really should,” Tony says thoughtfully. “Only Steve, me, Nat and Clint were affected, so it didn’t make sense to check you guys.”

“Okay,” Rose nods, clearly relieved that Tony Stark does not have possession of her blood work. 

“Okay,” Tony repeats. “Now then. I couldn’t find anything in your blood, so then I went for the DNA sequencing. It was a bit of a long shot, but it was the only thing I could think of that could change us so much. I mean, our bodies are literally the exact same as when we were teenagers. I have the same scars that had long since faded when I was at my lively age of twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?”Clint scoffs in derision. “Please. Forty, if not more.”

“Shut it, Mullet Man,” Tony snaps. I give a strangled snort when I remember that during all this, I hadn’t appreciated Clint’s truly awful choice of hairstyle to its fullest.

“Not quite true,” Steve protests. “I wasn’t like this when I was a teenager.”

“Right,” Tony nods. “So that’s also what made me think that it was DNA. See, the reason I looked was because if someone could access your DNA sequencing, they could pick and choose what parts to change, what to keep. They could’ve picked and chose to keep your serum, Steve, but put you in a teenager’s body. It’s next-level science, but it’s certainly possible.”

“Okay, first of all, who is this ‘they’ you keep referring to, and second, even if that  _ were  _ possible, we’d have to be...Injected, or experimented on, which we haven’t been, and thirdly, how’d they get our blood work in the first place?” Clint says, all in one breath. Tony grimaces. 

“First one and third one’s a little easy-HYDRA,” he says. At the looks of disbelief on his team-mates’ faces, he continues,

“Think about it. Who has ever had access to that sort of science? Yeah, Pierce was taken down by Cap at the Triskelion, but that doesn’t mean HYDRA’s gone, right? Remember that whole ‘cut one head off, two more shall take it’s place’ thing?” Everyone’s eyes are on Steve, who nods slowly. 

“I wouldn’t put it past HYDRA,” he admits. “We always seem to be one step behind them.”

“I’ve been picking up chatter...A new division’s definitely being built,” Natasha agrees. 

“The answer to your third question,” Tony addresses Clint. “Is that HYDRA  _ had  _ our blood work. When SHIELD fell and our dear Miss Romanoff released the files onto the Internet, HYDRA and SHIELD both tried to recover and redact what they could to limit the blowback. In doing so, they realized that SHIELD-or HYDRA, we aren’t sure-was conducting experiments with Steve’s blood to recreate the supersoldier serum.”

“Again?” Steve growls. “How’d they get my blood?”

“Fury,” Tony supplies. “Security measure. He has mine, too. He was having people figure out a way to get the shrapnel out of my chest. Nat and Clint are SHIELD agents, so that’s required. When SHIELD’s firewall was breached, it’s easy to imagine that HYDRA picked it up. The answer to your second question is really more a guess, but that if HYDRA did get out blood, did pull sequences of our DNA out of the blood and figure out a way to re-sequence it, they could have released into a gas. 

“A gas that we didn’t notice but breathed in during the explosion,” Natasha murmurs. 

“Right on, Annie,” Tony says brightly. He gestures to the hologram, part of which show an animated video of his hypothesis, part of which have the evidence of his, Steve’s, Natasha’s and Clint’s bloodwork files and the last, which seems to be an analysis of a collection of particles. 

“Quinjet picked up a gas sample when we left Bosnia,” Tony explains the analysis. “And some sort of unidentifiable gas had definitely been released.”

“How long until you can get us out of our teenage bodies?” Natasha asks. 

“A while. I don’t know. Months, maybe. I’ll have to figure out  _ how  _ HYDRA did it before even beginning to figure out how to fix it. You don’t want me poking around your DNA without knowing what I’m doing,” Tony points out. 

“Agreed,” Natasha says fervently, Tony looking vaguely offended. 

“Yeah, but here’s the other hard question,” Clint’s eyebrows are knitted in thought. “If HYDRA can turn us into teenagers...What else can they do?” 

“We won’t know until we have more intel, and unfortunately, with us like this,” Steve gestures at himself. “We can’t go in blind anymore. Too dangerous.”

“That’s where Barnes comes in,” I speak up. All the while, I’ve been processing what Bucky told me in the back of my mind. Much of his story was already faithfully recorded in the files Natasha had given me, but he referenced a variety of HYDRA projects and bases. 

“Barnes? What about him?” Natasha questions. 

“He’s got extensive knowledge of pretty much everything they’ve been up to for the past sixty years,” I point out. 

“Not exactly. He was taken in and out of cyro, and when he was awake, he was on missions,” Natasha responds swiftly. “I doubt HYDRA would have been foolish enough to let information slip to an Asset.” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” I shrug. “But I recognized the names of known HYDRA operations that he mentioned, and he knows their protocols for the most basic to top-ranking soldiers. They wiped his memory every mission, so they let him see a lot more than they probably intended. But now that he can remember, he’s a wealth of information, I’m sure.” Clint nods appreciatively. 

“She’s right,” he says. “Barnes could be incredibly useful, besides being a good fighter.”

“And,” I pipe up again. Tony turns to me with an air of annoyance so I speak quickly. “And Bucky told me to be careful. He said that he found an old-he found intel on HYDRA, and that they were getting ready to attack the Avengers. That’s why he shadowed us in Bosnia.” 

“More proof that Barnes has turned over a new leaf,” Tony sighs resignedly.

“He said he’d help the Avengers,” Rose reminds us. I lookat her and give as warm a smile I can. She’d spoken barely a word since the whole Bucky-Steve-Tony fiasco started. I could hardly blame her-it was only through my own impetus that I’d become embroiled in the whole thing at all, and if I’d been more clear-minded, I probably would have tried to stay out of it. 

“So he did,” Steve smiles at Rose. 

“The Asset for HYDRA becomes the Asset for the Avengers,” Natasha has a strange look on her face (again) when she looks at me. I frown at her choice of words, and Steve apparently felt the same, but remains silent.

“While we’re in teenage form, we’re going to need all the help we can get,” Clint adds, his voice persuasive. Clearly, it is all meant for Tony’s benefit, and we turn to see his reaction. 

“That’s that then,” he says, surprisingly calm. “We’ll bring him up for dinner. I don’t know about you but I’m famished.” There is a moment of shocked quiet at Tony’s nonchalant manner, none of us quite believing he had taken our words to heart. When no change is forthcoming, we lapse into a hearty argument over dinner plans, perhaps a bit more raucous than usual to account for our surprise. 

“Chinese,” Tony protests to Natasha’s suggestion of Italian. 

“We had that last night,” Clint gripes as we leave the Laboratory and begin to drift upstairs. 

“No, last night we were being blown up,” Natasha reminds him. 

“Right,’” Clint’s lips quirks in amusement. “Who could forget that?”

“I certainly couldn’t,” Rose remarks dryly. The elevator arrived, and while everyone else boards it with little hesitation, I stand outside the doors. 

“I’ll go grab Bucky,” I volunteer, looking straight at Tony. It isn’t a statement so much as it is a question-my request for Tony to put his past behind him only goes so far, and this is Tony’s house. If he doesn’t want to break bread with the killer of his parents, ambiguity of his true identity or not, I can hardly argue. 

“You do that,” Tony says, giving me the approval I need to go bounding down the glass stairs to the bowels of Stark Tower. 

“Oh, and Tony?” I shout. “My vote’s for that awesome Indian place JARVIS told me about.”

“He only says that ‘cause he fell in love with the cash register that one time,” Tony yells back. 

“Mr Stark, I would do well to remind you that as I am an AI, it is well beyond my abilities to ‘fall in love’ as you say,” JARVIS’ dignified English accent echoes across the floors. I can hear the ensuing laughter, and, chuckling a little to myself, I make my way to the Observatory. From what it looks like, Bucky is sleeping, his head tucked beneath his arms, curled in on himself in the fetal position. I tap gently on the glass, and he starts awake. The door hisses open and I step inside. 

“Hey,” I greet. As it is my third or fourth time in his cell today, there is an air of familiarity that helps me relax. Despite my posturing about his total recovery as Bucky Barnes and not the Winter Soldier, it would be foolish not to be wary, especially since, if something goes wrong, there’s not going to be anyone out looking for me. 

“Hullo,” he replies, his lips curving into an easy smile. It’s a simple expression, boyish, and so innocent my heart aches for the bright soul that must have been Sergeant Barnes before HYDRA took him. 

“So after all the fuss, we’re all eating dinner together,” I say, keeping my tone carefully light. “And Tony would like you to come up and eat with us.”

“Out of the cell?” Bucky said in disbelief. “With no restraints?” And the innocence is gone, replaced by the lost wonderment of a severely damaged child. I nod, not trusting my voice to speak. 

“Y-yeah. I think it’s Indian?” I hazard. Bucky gets to his feet slowly, as if gathering his wits into one purpose. 

“That’s very kind of him,” he murmurs. Out of instinct, I hold out my hand to him and press the release on the door. I almost regret the gesture, as he doesn’t take it immediately, just looks at me. Feeling awkward I turn away, my cheeks burning with embarassment, when his cool hand slips through mine. It’s the metal one, and momentarily taken aback, I squeeze the material, reveling in the plates and gears that whirr softly in response. 

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes, trying to switch hands. “I’m still getting used to it.” I shake my head firmly and grip his hand. 

“This one’s just as good as the other,” I assure him. “Maybe even cooler. God, my little brother would get such a kick out of this.” 

“You have a little brother?” he asks as we leave his cell for what I hope will be the last time. 

“Yeah,” I smile in remembrance of the three little faces I’d left back home. “And two sisters.” 

“How old?” Bucky inquires as we wait for the elevator. 

“Five-no, six,” I correct myself. “The boy’s the youngest, Owen. Then Marina-she’s eight. And then Pearl at eleven.” 

“Big family,” Bucky comments. 

“Yeah. I don’t see ’em much,” I admit. 

“Oh?” Bucky sounds genuinely interested, and with an encouraging squeeze of his hand, I speak,

“I go to boarding school not far from here. They live in California, though.”

“Far, huh,” he muses. “Why’d you leave?” 

“Eh, you know,” I answers evasively. “Why does anyone leave?” Bucky chuckles, picking up on my unwillingness to discuss the subject. 

“I had a bunch of siblings back in the ‘40s ,” he tells me. 

“How much is a bunch?” I want to know. 

“Oh, six or seven,” his eyes are twinkling, and I delight at the blossoming hope that there might be a chance to take away that scared-child look. 

“Six or seven?” I repeat in astonishment “I can barely take three!” 

“Yeah, they were more than a handful sometimes,” Bucky remembers. “But I missed-miss-them like crazy.” 

“Me too,” I agree. We lapse into quiet for a while until we reach the living room. When we enter, I find the scene similar to the one I’d walked in on days--God, how it felt like years--ago, and yet jarringly different. Pepper sips champagne next to a Natasha, who gives disgruntled looks at her fruit juice. Steve, Tony, Clint and a full-sized Sam are seated on the couch, while Rose perches on the end. The side she was sitting on, might I add, was the side closest to Steve. Natasha had won the bid for dinner choice it seems, as plasticware filled with pastas and Italian meats are sitting on the table. 

“And now I can finally say that I‘m taller than Captain America,” Sam finishes triumphantly, snapping a selfie with the diminutive supersoldier. At Bucky and my entrance, the room falls deadly silent. Pepper and Sam jump to their feet, Pepper pale and Sam with something like fire in his eyes. 

“You,” he states coldly. 

“Me,” Bucky replies, slightly confused. It’s only after Rose’s raised eyebrows and the sudden chilliness on Natasha’s face that I notice I am still holding Bucky’s hand. Not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to distract him, I extricate my fingers from his grasp and let his hand fall to his side. Something flashes across his face-I didn’t know what-then it’s gone and he faces Sam with a stony expression. 

“Sam, this is Bucky. Bucky this is Sam, otherwise known as the Falcon,” Steve intervenes. When neither party seems inclined to say another word, Steve speaks again, his voice pointed and oddly paternal,

“Both of you are, uh, close friends of mine. It’d be really nice if we could all get along.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Bucky says, his tone making it clear that he thinks his meeting Sam is very far from nice. 

“Huh,” Sam scoffs. “Guy rips the steering wheel out of my car, tries to kill me multiple times, trashes my suit and my beautiful wings and chucks Cap into the Potomac and he expects me to shake his hand.” 

“I’m not expecting you to do anything but fall flat on your face, birdbrains,” Bucky snaps. There’s a moment of charged, tense silence before Sam shakes his head and starts to laugh. 

“To be fair, I tried to kill you too,” he concedes. “Guess we’re even, then.” 

“I like the nickname,” Tony’s usual snark sounds weak, but his voice is sincere. Bucky turns to him and inclines his head in a gesture of respect. 

“Thank you, Tony,” he says, and it is clear that his thanks go farther than just a compliment. 

“‘S no big deal,” Tony shifts from side to side, resting his weight uncertainly on each foot. “You know a lot about HYDRA, right?” At Bucky’s nod, he continues. “We help you, you help us. Simple as that.” 

“Simple as that,” Bucky echoes. Far from it, but the sentiment is enough to get the evening started in a relatively friendly manner. Plates of Italian food are passed around, and for a moment, the tensions amongst us lessen. Still, old wounds don’t heal overnight, and we are only an hour in when Tony quietly excuses himself to his workroom. Pepper follows him out a fifteen minutes later. 

“Give him time,” Steve’s voice advises me as I watch the closed door pensively. 

“I know,” I say, somewhat impatiently. “Can’t help wishing there was more I could do.”

“I know the feeling,” Steve’s eyes slide over to Bucky, who is conversing with Clint. Maybe about shared mind-control experiences, I wonder. Clint would be a good resource for Bucky, then. “But you’ve done more for him in hours than what any of us could have done in years.” The importance of his admittance, either for Bucky or Tony or both, is not lost on me. Steve is proud, despite his other strengths as Captain America, and I guess that it is particularly difficult for him not to intervene when his friends ae involved. 

“You’re a good friend, Steve,” I tell him. “To both of them.” His blue eyes are sad when he returns my concerned gaze. 

“I try,” is all he said. I bite my lip as I watch him weave through the couches and chairs, looking out at the nighttime skyline of Manhattan via the huge windows of Stark Tower. Moments later, Bucky sidles up alongside him, and seems to strike up a conversation. There is pain and grief between those two as well, no doubt, and it will take time to heal, in leaps and bounds and then in tiny, inching steps until their friendship is fully restored. 

“I think I’m heading to bed,” Rose’s voice informs me. It is only when she mentions ‘bed’ that I realize how tired I was. I sway on my feet and feel my friend grab my arm. 

“And you’re coming with me,” she says sternly. She gives the rest of the company a wave. 

“We’re heading off to sleep,” she announces as we leave the room. 

“Clint and I would like to speak to you in the morning,” Natasha calls after us. We both freeze in our tracks. 

“Nothing bad,” she assures us. “Just be there for breakfast at nine.” I give them a thumbs-up to show our understanding before tottering back to my room with Rose


	20. Surprises Are Fun, Especially in the Morning (Rose's POV)

I sla has changed. I can see that from the moment she left Bucky’s cell after the hours of non-communication. Those hours--they were the longest of my life, spent staring at the one monitor still on after Bucky’s request. Natasha had implanted a chip in Isla’s left shoulder. Easily removable, it tracked her heartbeat. I saw it rise and fall and then remain at a constant rise-recede pattern with only the occasional spike. It became all I concentrated on, the one thing I could assure myself that my friend was not lying on the cold floor of the cell, unmoving and staring sightless into the ceiling. Yet however long those hours might have been, they were surely longer for her. She looked older when she walked through the door of the Observatory, more hardened. 

There are a lot of things I don’t understand about Isla, and suspect I probably never will, but as she falls asleep, she looks as though the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. In a sense, I suppose, it had. Bucky’s actions are on her-she’d vouched for his recovery, and if the Avengers end in strife, I have no doubt she will carry the weight of that failure too. I want, in any way that I can, to try and help her bear the burden, coaxing out everything Bucky told her. He spared her no detail in the jobs he undertook, and while it is probably very helpful to, say, SHIELD and the Avengers, that she could remember them with little difficulty, I knew it was only because they’d been seared with sickening horror into her memory. 

I sit on the side of her bed until she falls asleep, tucking her hair behind her ears and humming as well as I can. She curls up like a cat beneath her covers, her features relaxed in a way that I remembered that she was still only fifteen.  _ And yet _ , I think to myself as I climb into my own bed.  _ If she was ever a child, she’s not one anymore.  _ I let my mind wander as it tries to process the events of the day, slipping in and out of uneasy sleep. It is the not-knowing, I think, that makes me all the more anxious. Tossing and turning in my bed, I cannot wait until morning comes and the dark doubts of the night are dispelled by the sunlight. 

♕ ♞ ♛ ♘

“I never meant to be so bad to you,” John Wetton’s voice blares over the speakers Isla had connected her phone, moments after I finally drifted off into proper sleep. 

“ISLA SMITH SHUT THAT BLOODY SONG OFF,” I yell, rolling over and stuffing my head in my pillow. 

“It’s eight thirty,” she shouts back over the music. “We have to get dressed. And you know you love this song.” I glare over the edge of my loft to see the girl jumping up and down on her bed, singing into a hairbrush. Quickly revising my gloomy conclusion that she’d become jaded and hardened by the interview the day before, I blearily strip off my pajamas and shove my unwieldy limbs into proper clothing. I stomp down the stairs, phone in hand like some sort of weapon against Isla’s boundless exuberance. 

“Right, you were the one with the alarm, so will you please get dressed so we can go meet Nat and Clint?” I demand, poking her in the small of the back. Surprised, she loses her balance and topples onto the bed, her legs tangled in the sheets. Rolling over with a grunt of effort, she turns off the phone alarm, shutting off the music as well. 

It is at that moment that a knock raps on the door. Both of us too lazy to actually go and get it, I assume it’s just Natasha or Pepper and give a sweet,

“Come in!” It isn’t Natasha, or Pepper, or another female, who would have been greatly appreciated in this situation, as Isla is still in her ‘pajamas’. Why the ironic quotation marks around pajamas you might ask. Well, that is due to my dear roommate's sleepwear. If it can be called that. She usually sleeps stark naked (ha, stark. Like Stark, like Tony Stark? I’m funny I swear). It doesn’t bother me-even if it did, I doubt Isla would have actually put clothes on anyway. If it was cold, which it often was during New England winter, she’d wear shorts and nothing else, or if she was feeling particularly modest, she’d wear some sort of bra or  _ very  _ thin shirt. Thankfully, today is one of those days, as the concerned guest in our room happens to be none other than the ex-Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes. He has changed from the battered suit he’d been wearing since we found him in Bosnia, into basketball shorts and a t-shirt, looking, for all intents and purposes, like just another teenage boy. 

“Erm, hello?” I am partially blocking his line of sight and try to signal to Isla behind my back to  _ stop singing that stupid song and get bloody dressed, _ which, might I add, involves way more knowledge in ASL than I knew. In the end, Isla ends up giving an undignified squawk and tumbling off the bed at my signal. Her head pops up over the edge, cheeks burning. Bucky has, by this point, noticed that there is something amiss and looks at me quizzically. 

“I heard shouts and...Loud music? I wanted to make sure you were all right,”  _ What  _ a polite boy, I think approvingly. He would do very nicely for my friend hiding behind the bed if not for the assassin thing. I sighe and smile brightly,

“We’re all right thank you.” 

“Um, is Isla here?” Bucky inquires. For a Soviet-trained spy, he is a bit slow on the details, because he clearly has not seen Isla yet.

“Here,” Isla’s voice behind me. Bollocks. Cursing her ridiculous penchant for the dramatic, I turn around slowly and gesture to my friend. Dressed in a long _ ish  _ shirt and probably with nothing else underneath, I can hardly blame the half-terrified, half-interested glance that Bucky gives her. 

“We’re  quite all right, thank you,” Isla greets, her cheeks bright red. “Just a bit of morning singing. Lovely way to clean the pipes, as it were.” If Bucky is unused to Isla’s strange way of speaking, he doesn’t show it.

“You sing very nicely,” is all he says. Isla makes a sound that was somewhere between surprised and scornful. 

“You’re an excellent liar,” she laughs. “But I’m afraid I won’t fall for your flattery quite yet.”

“Then I’ll have to try a bit harder,” he replies, a sudden smirk playing around his lips. The look he gives Isla makes my usually overconfident friend flush and stutter, but she holds his gaze. After a couple minutes of me suffering through the most painfully awkward third-wheel situation I’ve been in to date, I decide to intervene,

“Well as  _ wonderful  _ as it’s been, having you visit us at such a  _ wonderful  _ hour, I think we’ll just have to wait to see you again over a  _ wonderful  _ breakfast.” Blinking once in confusion, but understanding my message, Bucky inclines his head. 

“Until breakfast, then,” he smiles. I know perfectly well that it isn’t for me, but I accept his invitation with a graceful ‘thank you’ and promptly shut the door. When I turn around, Isla is standing in exactly the same position as she was throughout the entire conversation, the most ridiculous smile on her face. 

“What’cha smilin’about?” I ask. She shrugs quickly and finally attends to the business of dressing herself. 

“Nothing,” her answer is muffled by the shirt she pulls over her head. 

“Riight, nothing,” I snorts. 

“Nothing,” she repeats, as, thankfully clothed, she marches resolutely out of the room. I consider pursuing the subject of our unexpected guest and her reaction to his presence, but decide against it. I can hardly encourage her towards a guy I know kills people for a living and call myself the responsible one in our friendship. 

Breakfast is, in Stark Tower at least, a grand affair. Clearly one of those who believes that the first meal is the most important of the day, Tony has platters of fruit, baked goods, eggs cooked in every fashion imaginable, hot and cold cuts of meat and four waffle irons arranged on the kitchen island. A funny-looking skillet sits on the stovetop with a thin layer of batter that had a concerning amount of smoke rising off it that Steve (about two feet shorter than Sam, mind you) is arguing heatedly with the Falcon over. Bucky is leaning against the island sipping coffee from a mug with the same languid, feline grace Natasha has. It’s easy for me to imagine that they’d trained together, or at least fought alongside one another. I also notice Isla’s eyes find his almost immediately after she enters the room, sees him draw himself up and puff out his chest a little in response to her gaze. Chuckling to myself, I take a plate from the stack on the corner of the table and go around the buffet, taking whatever I fancy until I fill the dish. I then sit on the edge of the kitchen counter, my feet just brushing the floor.

I watch as Isla, after fixing herself some tea, calmly cracks a raw egg on top of a bowl of sticky rice she’d chosen as her breakfast. Taking a pair of chopsticks from the collection of cutlery laid out next to the plates, she saunters over to me, making sure to brush past Bucky’s arm with her own. Swinging herself onto the counter, she takes a sip of tea, her legs dangling off the edge. She swills the liquid around her mouth for a moment before turning to her rice, which has a bright yellow yolk trembling on the top. With practiced ease, she stabs the chopsticks into the center of the yolk and makes a hollow in the rice for the egg to sink down into without spilling over the edge of the bowl. I observe this ritual-like practice with a mixture of disgust and fascination. 

“You’re doing it again,” I comment when she had finished mixing the egg and the rice together, so that the whole bowl resembled something glistening and gooey and the color of thick cream. 

“What?” she asks, sucking strands of egg protein off her chopsticks. 

“Bloody Asians,” I mutter shaking my head. 

“It’s just a bit of raw egg, and it’s good for you,” she replies calmly, taking a bite of her rice. “Anyways, what were you talking about?”

“You  _ strut, _ ” I tell her disapprovingly over a forkful of waffle drenched in syrup and butter. 

“I do no such thing,” she retorts, tossing her hair back in indignation. 

“You do, so don’t bother denying it,” I raise my eyebrows loftily. “And I can  _ hardly _ guess why.” 

“I don’t know  _ what  _ you’re talking about,” she shakes her head, digging into her rice to avoid meeting my eyes. 

“Hmm, popping up half-dressed, after long hours spent in a cold cell going over war memories?” I think aloud. “Sounds to me like you-”

“Like raw eggs and rice, such an odd combination, but that’s me isn’t it?” Isla interrupts me, talking at high speed. I look over my shoulder, following her frozen smile to whoever stands behind me. It happens to be the Dynamic Duo a.k.a Natasha and Clint.   
“Nine o’clock on the dot,” Natasha says, nodding appreciatively. “Good. Eat up and come on.”

“What? Where? Where are we going?” I demand, jumping off the counter, breakfast utterly forgotten. There is an ungainly thump and a muttered ‘ow’, which means that Isla has joined me. 

“Well, if you’re ready to go, then we can just head out now,” Natasha shrugs, giving a disapproving look to Clint, who is absently pouring himself a cup of coffee, already overflowing. 

“Clint? Clint,” she snaps her fingers underneath his nose. When he doesn’t react, she sighs and takes away the  coffee pot before Clint floods the fruit platter with caffeinated liquid. 

“Tasha,” he groans resentfully. “That was my coffee!” 

“We’ve got work, Barton,” Natasha reminds him. She turns to us and motions to the elevator. “Car’s waiting downstairs.” 

“For the last time,” I ask as Isla and I hurry after the two. “Where in the bloody hell are we going?”

“I don’t think we’re going to find out anytime soon,” Isla says in resignation as the elevator doors shut in front of our faces. Clint, who seems to have recovered from early-morning spaciness from lack of coffee, and had progressed onto the stage of vindictively punishing innocent souls, yelled, 

“Take the stairs,” before he and Natasha disappear. Isla swears loudly, which makes everyone in the kitchen stare. 

“ _ Language, _ ” Steve is totally scandalized. Sam looks as though he is going to say something as well when he stops short at a strange, wheezing sort of sound. After a series of bewildered glances, we slowly realize that it’s Bucky, bent over and shaking with laughter. 

“I’m sorry, is my swearing or current predicament amusing?” Isla inquires,  a single eyebrow raised in disdain at Bucky’s guffawing.  

“No, it’s...It’s,” Bucky can barely draw breath he’s laughing so hard. 

“ _ What _ , Buck?” Steve asks exasperatedly. 

“You,” Bucky chokes. “Telling  _ her  _ to mind her damn _ language.”  _

“And?” Sam asks, his expression of concern making it clear that he’s half-expecting for Bucky to go insane again. 

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky manages to control himself a little more now, but tears are still streaming down his cheeks. “You swore worse than the sailors in that barge off the coast of Marseilles.” A slow smile of realization dawns on Steve’s face and he starts to chuckle too, nodding his head in embarrassed agreement. 

Guess you’re right,” he admits. “Pot calling the kettle black. Sorry for the preachiness, Isla.” 

“Preachiness,” Bucky breaks off into gales of laughter. “By God. Isla, never pay any attention to Captain America telling you not to swear ‘cause he swears more than I do.”

“That’s not true,” Steve objects, and I notice strains of a Brooklyn accent weaving its way into his voice. “I’m no worse’n Dumdum, and he’s bad, but not near as bad as you.” The two continue a good-natured argument over who has a dirtier mouth, Sam standing between the teenaged supsersoldiers, still looking as though he believes his companions to be half-mad. 

“Miss Smith? Miss Clavell?” I haven’t heard JARVIS’ voice in ages, and only realize it when I feel the pang of familiarity in hearing a voice accented so similarly to my father’s. 

“Yeah JARVIS” Isla replies, her eyes still on a certain dark-haired boy across the room. 

“Miss Romanoff and Mr Barton are requesting your immediate presence downstairs,” JARVIS informs us. 

“Oh yeah,” I mutter. “That thing. That we were supposed to be doing.” 

“How many floors down do we need to go?” Isla asks JARVIS. 

“Thirty two,” came JARVIS’ succinct answer. Isla and I groan in unison before trudging over to the stairwell. 

“Good luck,” Steve’s voice comes floating down the varnished steps as we sprint down. Unfortuantely, I’m already too winded to give a reply. 

  
Clint and Natasha are waiting impatiently at in the huge, glass-and-steel lobby of Stark Tower. Not surprisingly, there is a gigantic bronze statue of Iron Man standing in the center of the room, surrounded by long reception desks wrapping around the circular interior. Attractive women dressed in tight-fitting business dresses gave the sweaty and panting Isla and I picture-perfect smiles as we are escorted by Clint and Natasha into the waiting SUV. A rather intimidating car, it’s made all the more frightening when black gauze is tied firmly over my nose and eyes. 

“Uhm Natasha?” I ask uncertainly, struggling to breathe through my mouth. 

“Don’t worry,” comes her answer, a bit to my left. “It’s just protocol.”

“Protocol? What friggin protocol,” I can hear Isla’s voice, shaken with shock at the turn of events, but surprisingly vicious in her inquiry. 

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Clint assures us. “Just sit tight.” That’s the last that is said in that car ride, Isla and I sitting quietly in seats that feel like leather, but, of course, I can’t be sure because my eyes are blindfolded _.  _

After a time, the car stops, and the usual clicks and snaps of opening and closing doors follows. I feel a hand curl around my arm and gently tug me out of the car. Solid ground below me, I manage to walk unaided for a good ten yards before tripping over my own feet and falling flat on my face. Spitting grit out from between my teeth and wondering at the odd, damp feeling of the air on my tongue, I get to my feet, nodding vaguely to the murmured questions towards my well-being, grateful that my hands aren’t tied, as that would have made an even more painful landing. 

“Almost there,” Natasha’s voice reassures me, and I nod again, doggedly following the tugs on my arm that pull me in what I assume is the right direction. Finally, after what seems like ages, but what is probably only a couple of minutes, the blindfold is removed. Light momentarily blinds me and I blink hard, trying to clear the spots that dance across my vision. When I can open  my eyes without white flashes sending shooting pain into my head, I take in my surroundings. A square, non-descript room with greying wallpaper speckled with dark spots from the damp lies before me. A single desk stands in the center of the room--a simple affair with a long crack running through the center of the tabletop. Behind the desk is a high backed black leather chair. The back is facing me, but it is evidently the only thing in this place that seems to be in working condition. 

“Cheerful place,” Isla comments wryly as the lights flickered ominously. 

“Thank you,” a voice from behind the chair answers. Slowly, the chair wheels around to face us. A mild-looking man is seated in it, blue eyes staring out from thick-lensed glasses. 

“I always wanted to do that,” he says thoughtfully, tapping the armrests of the chair. 

“Fury did it best,” Natasha tells him, and I see a rare smile sparkling in her green eyes. 

“You’ve given him a run for his money,” Clint says quietly. I turn at his tone, and am surprised to see pure shock written all over his face, as if the man is some sort of ghost. “Dying, I mean.”

“I suppose I have,” the man smiles. He looks as if he’s going to say more, then pauses. His eyes, which reminded me strangely of Steve’s, fall on Isla and me. Under his gaze, I realize that despite his unsuspecting manner, there is an intensity hidden behind his friendly demeanor. It explains Natasha and Clint’s air of respect that appeared the moment they recognized him. I wonder vaguely what he’d done to deserve it.

“So you’re the ones we’ve been hearing about,” he says. 

Um, sorry sir, but could we go back to the part where you were talking about dying?” Isla asks nervously. Natasha makes a small sound that I don’t know if it was exasperation or impatience. 

“I died,” the man replies calmly. “For twenty-nine seconds actually.” I give a soft snort of disbelief, and see Clint shaking his head as well. Natasha, on the other hand, just looks amused. 

“It’s classified,” he says apologetically, in a way that makes me pretty sure that we won’t be hearing any more on the subject. “But, I guess classified is a word you’ve heard plenty of.” 

“You have no idea,” Isla mutters. The man chuckles. 

“You know, you remind me of-” he breaks off suddenly and glances quickly at Natasha and Clint. He shakes himself slightly and turns back to us. “I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Phil Coulson.” 

“Director,” Natasha corrects. 

“Right,” Coulson agrees. “Director Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Engagement Logistics Department.”

“Where have I heard that before,” I frown to myself, thinking aloud. 

“SHIELD,” Isla breathes, her eyes wide with excitement. “Mr Coulson-Director Coulson-sir, are  _ you  _ the Director of SHIELD?!”

“That  _ is _ what he was saying, isn’t it?” Natasha asks sardonically. Isla bristles and is about to spit out a reply when Coulson interjects quickly, addressing Natasha and Clint.

“We would like to help you with your problem, but, as you know all too well, there’ve been leaks in the new SHIELD, despite our best efforts. Something this big-or should I say little-” he regards the two teenaged spies. “Should be kept under wraps for as long as possible. I will help as much as I can, but there’s only so much we can do.”

“We understand,” Clint nods. “And we know that you’re busy with-”

“With Bosnia,” Coulson gives an ironic smile. “Takes me back a couple of years.” 

“Paris,” Natasha agrees quietly, shaking her head. 

“Paris,” the director echoes sadly and there is a moment of silence, a remembrance for whatever had happened hanging in the mildewed air. Coulson is the first to snap himself out of the reverie. 

“Okay then,” I don’t know what it is, but his way of talking is immediately soothing, making me want to trust him. “Bosnia. Pretty good for a civilian’s first mission.”

“Okay, Clint was saying the same thing,” Isla shakes her head in confusion. “Why do you keep talking about a  _ first  _ mission? As in, the first of many?” 

“Maybe,” Coulson gives another enigmatic smile. 

“But  _ how, _ ” Isla demands. “Like you said, we’re civilians.”

“Ah,” Coulson’s smile grows. “That’s the reason why you’re here. Miss Rose Clavell, please step forward.” Feeling slightly as though I’m about to face a firing squad, I oblige. 

“During your time in Bosnia and the time after it, Agent Natasha Romanoff has deemed you capable for field service under her supervision. In light of recent events, you have been granted access to all Level Nine files and are welcome to any and all SHIELD resources that are at the disposal of other agents at this level,” he intones. There’s a pause after he finishes, where I stand rooted to the spot, my brain still processing what he had said. 

“Rose?” Natasha asks. “Do you-do you have anything to say?” 

“Wh-what?” I stammer. “Oh, yeah, right. Uhm...Thank you Mr-Director-Coulson.” 

“You’re welcome,” he hands over a black wallet case. Flipping it open, I see an identification card with my name and a silver emblem of an eagle with its wings spread. I feel Natasha’ grip my arm as I stare dumbly at the wallet and she leads me out of the room. It is only after the blindfold covers the top half of my face that the magnitude of what has happened comes flooding back. 

“Natasha?  _ Natasha?”  _ I demand. 

“What is it, Rose?” 

“A lot of things, actually,” I reply. “One,  _ what the bloody hell just happened?!” _

“You were instated as an agent for SHIELD. You have the choice to train with me or to return to your school, under the understanding that you will be monitored,” Natasha states.

“So I can become an agent or be spied on for the rest of my life? I’m sorry, was I consulted about this?” Hot anger starts to fill my veins as I consider the options Natasha had given me.

“It’s a great honor and an incredible exception to a rule that would usually have made you train for the next six years in the Academy,” Natasha sounds affronted that I am anything but grateful.

“But I don’t-I didn’t  _ do  _ anything!” I cry out. 

“Do anything? You flew a Quinjet by yourself. You went on a mission with the Avengers. A mission which acutally went completely sideways, but you demonstrated calm reserve in the face of danger and extreme stress. There are not many agents now that would be able to do what you did, and with little prior training at all,” Natasha points out.

“Isla was the one who brokered peace between Stark and Steve about Bucky, she was the one who interviewed him, who made him an Asset for SHIELD or the Avengers or whatever you bloody people call yourselves,” I feel the anger fading into panic. “And besides, she-wait. Where’s Isla?” 

“She’s still with Coulson,” Natasha says. 

“Why?” I ask, struggling with the blindfold. I feel Natasha grab my arm, and shake her off angrily, ripping it off. When I see her face, I’m surprised to see real fear flash across her face. It doesn’t endear me toward the redhead, especially since I figure she’s just trying to do it to get me to pity her and back off. Instead, I glare at her in fury. “And another thing, if I  _ am  _ an agent, why are you blindfolding me? What is this place?” It looks-and smells-like sewer pipes, with mold and green fungus growing out of the walls, and the telltale stench of sewage permeating the room. Hardly a glamorous place for the director of SHIELD. 

“Secret meeting place,” Natasha answers. “And that’s the other reason. After the Triskelion, SHIELD’s not been able to get back onto full strength. In the old days, you understand, this would have never happened, but we’ve been forced to recruit everyone that we can.” 

“Cause you can’t trust anyone,” I guess, somewhat mollified. She nods grimly,

“Especially after the blood leak. Until Stark figures out a way to fix us, there’s no telling what false SHIELD agents can do.” 

“So what can I do?” I ask, panic bleeding away into a growing bubble of excitement. Natasha gives me a small smile. 

“That’s up to you,” she replies.


	21. The Son of Coul (Isla's POV)

As soon as Rose leaves the room, the atmosphere changes. It’s less congratulations-you’ve-just-become-a-spy and more you-done-messed-up. How I have such incredible perception probably has to do with Coulson’s change in demeanor, from pleasant to stern and Clint’s stiffening of posture. I don’t know Clint well enough to figure out why he’s suddenly so uncomfortable, but it probably isn’t good. 

“Isla Smith. Daughter to Walter and Mizaya Smith,” I’ve gotten so used to people I’ve never met knowing my name, but it’s a bit of a shock to hear my parents’ name and I stare at Coulson in shock.

“You knew them?” I ask. 

“Knew them?” Coulson laughs, but it isn’t quite sincere enough for me to believe that his levity was genuine. “Yes, I knew them. But that’s not why I’m here.” 

“Bosnia, right?” I suggest, but the director shakes his head. 

“No. Not Bosnia, although it might interest you to know that if not for your actions after Bosnia, you would have been like Rose, a fully instated agent,” Coulson informs me. I go cold. 

“And-and what were those actions?” I ask, despite having a pretty good idea what they are. 

“For one,” Coulson looks sharply at Clint. “Direct disobedience towards what would be a superior officer, if you were operating under SHIELD protocol. You put yourself and the preservation of a very important asset to both SHIELD and the Avengers in jeopardy by your reckless decisions.” Unprepared for such a swift reprimand, I feel unbidden tears pricking my eyes. 

“But I-” I start to say. 

“Sir,” Clint tries to intervene. 

“Thank you, Mr Barton, but your opinion was not asked for,” Coulson cuts across him. He looks hard at me, blue eyes icy. “If you were a SHIELD agent you would have been duly punished.”

“But I’m not,” I say quietly. 

“But you’re not,” Coulson nods. “And that has made all the difference.”

“So I’m  _ not  _ in trouble?” I asks.

“Yes and no,” Coulson sighs. “What you did was very dangerous.”

“Yup, talking to a crazy ex-assassin tends to be,” I agree with a brittle smile. 

“Yes. But you did that, so I’m more inclined to reward you than punish you,” Coulson says. 

“Hurray,” I grin. “What’s my reward, then?”

“Access to all SHIELD resources, but you’re not considered a field agent,” Coulson’s eyes are on me, gauging my reaction with practiced intensity. I shrug,

“Thank you. Sounds like a good enough reward to me.” 

“It comes with a condition,” Coulson tilts his chin, pale eyes piercing the nonchalance I wear to hide my confusion.   
“Which is?” I ask lightly. 

“SHIELD is going through its own issues. We won’t interfere with the affairs of the Avengers unless we deem it necessary. A showdown between Captain America and Iron Man is not something we want to deal with, but we will if it comes down to it. Make sure that Barnes is kept in check,” he says. Clint scoffs behind me in disbelief. 

“Coulson, she’s just a kid,” I bristle at the comment, ready to fire back that at this point in time, Clint is also “just a kid” but  _ he  _ isn’t getting reprimanded. 

“And we’re fighting a war where children and adults are going to get hurt. I’m trying to minimize the collateral damage,” the director replies crisply. I’m shocked into silence. What happened to the kind, benevolent man I’d just seen congratulating Rose on her instatement as an agent? His eyes don’t seem as warm as they once did, the awkward cut of his suit sinister rather than endearing. A chill settles over me and a sense of intense loneliness gathers in a painfully tight knot in my chest. I’d considered myself an independent since I left home, but I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that the teachers at my school always  _ cared  _ what happened to me, whether because it meant a bigger cheque at the end of the year or no. But to this director Coulson, Bucky and I are just collateral damage. 

“You can’t give her that to bear,” Clint argues. 

“What? She made that decision to talk to Barnes. It worked, and now you’ve got your middle man,” Coulson answers calmly. “But he’s her responsibility now.” 

“Responsibility? Christ, Coulson, she’s not even eighteen,” Clint snaps. 

“And Natalia was fourteen when Peggy brought her in, and sixteen when she went out in the field with you,” Coulson reminds him. 

“Oh, so now we’re comparing a civilian’s experience to a Red Room assassin?” Clint demands, his face contorted in a rare display of his emotions; shock, anger, frustration. 

“She’s not a civilian,” Coulson shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Do you think that Walter’d go into non-active duty without doing something with his kids? She’d be recruited into the Academy in a couple of years anyway.” Apparently, I don’t have a choice in this? I stare at Coulson, somewhat gratified that he doesn’t peg me as a helpless civilian.  _ Not only that,  _ I reflect _ , he’s the only one that’s actually saying that I should deal with Bucky on my own _ . Also, I plan on having a long chat with my dear father about why the hell the Avengers and the director of SHIELD know who he is, and why I am pretty sure at this point that he’d been a SHIELD agent. 

“It doesn’t matter. She’s a high school student. Sooner or later she’s going to have to go back to school,” Clint protests. 

“Where she’ll be monitored closely,” Coulson cuts in. 

“I’m sorry, what?” I cough out, deciding that an attack on my personal privacy away from this star-spangled, iron-suited insanity is enough to make me speak up.

“You’ve been exposed to highly delicate files,” Coulson says matter-of-factly. “We need to make sure that you have no intention of spreading them, and if you do, what punitive measures can be taken.”  
“I’m not telling anyone about this,” I stress. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t really take your word for it,” Coulson actually has the grace to look apologetic. 

“Yeah, okay, so how’s she going to watch over her “responsibility” then?” Clint asks, his eyes flashing. 

“Either Mr Barnes will be with her at the school-” Coulson begins.

“Where all the other students will be vulnerable to an attack,” Clint objects.

“And where the control Miss Smith has over Mr Barnes is imperative,” Coulson declares. 

“This isn’t a responsibility, it’s an assignment,” Clint realizes. He gives a low whistle.

“One that, if she succeeds, will grant her almost top-level SHIELD access as a fully instated agent,” Coulson clarifies. He turns to me. “You and Rose have been placed in an incredibly unique position. We have had many agents try and fail to bring the Winter Soldier in, but now that you have done so, you need to understand what that means for the rest of us.”

“Us?” I repeat, shocked at how condescending Coulson sounds. “There is no ‘us’ when you call me and Bucky ‘collateral damage’, when you say that if I don’t watch what I say ‘punitive measures will be taken’. I mean, who the hell do you think you are?” 

“The director of SHIELD, and someone who needs to make the hard call when no one else will,” the last part of it is directed more at Clint, whose flared nostrils give away his helpless fury. I’m glad he is angry on my behalf, but Coulson’s cool statement, totally unrattled by what I think would get him to leave me alone, scares me. He’s making the hard call, and he is, in a very loose and threatening sense, placing a hell of a lot more responsibility on my shoulders than I probably deserve, but desperately want nevertheless. It’s clear that the sentiment between Steve and Tony, Tony and Bucky, Sam and Bucky os hardly friendly. Judging by the breadth of each Avengers’ personality, it won’t take long until one of them throws the first punch. I shiver involuntarily, finding myself agreeing with Coulson. 

“You’re right,” I say quietly, just as Clint opens his mouth to argue. “I’ll take Barnes. You need to get him into my school though, cause I’m not losing my diploma, thanks very much.”

“Isla, you’ve got no field experience-” Clint disagrees, shaking his head vehemently as if the physical action of negation will convince me more than the spoken. 

“Rose flew a Quinjet with no field experience,” I point out. “No one was holding her hand then. Look, the Avengers are  _ teenagers,  _ okay?”

“Not only that, SHIELD’s got a leak. That’s how the whole thing happened in the first place,” Coulson nods. “I need to vet all my agents and figure out what happened. Can’t have a Barnes versus Stark versus Rogers conflict as well.”

“And they all think you’re dead,” Clint raises an eyebrow at me, as if asking if I am really okay with what Coulson has offered. I am surprised by his willingness to actually let me make my own decisions and give him the best smile I can. 

“Dead?” I question.

“Dead,” Clint confirms, his eyes still carefully set on mine. 

“Honestly doesn’t surprise me,” I say. 

“Doesn’t keep HYDRA away, and that’s the problem,” Coulson sighs. The tension in the room begins to slowly ease off as the director runs a hand through thinning blond hair. “Isla, if this were any other time, I wouldn’t ask this, and I wouldn’t bring in civilians. But I have no choice. I’ll get Barnes in, but you need to keep him there until I am assured that he’s stable.”

“I thought you weren’t interfering with the Avengers,” Clint scowls. 

“I’m not. If this whole thing goes sideways, SHIELD gets exposed-again-for harboring another ex-Russian spy,” Coulson answers. Clint’s iron grey eyes fly to Coulson’s and there was a silent, private exchange between the two that ends with Clint saying in a flat voice,

“You’ve changed.” He doesn’t say it in so many words, but I know that it’s his way of agreeing with Coulson. 

“I had to,” it isn’t an excuse, or an explanation; it is simple fact. A pregnant pause extends into an uncomfortable one before Clint speaks again,

“We’d better get going.” 

“I trust you can get Mr Barnes into Isla’s school?” Coulson inclines his head in farewell. 

“Did you even have to ask?” Clint cracks a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before leading me out of the room. 

“Good luck, Miss Smith,” Coulson says. 

“Thank you, Director Coulson,” I reply, feeling that while I’m certainly not going to invite the man for dinner, but I’m not as far from understanding him as I thought. 

“Oh, and Clint?” We both turn. “Nice haircut.”


	22. The Squid Hits the Fan

Clint doesn’t bother to blindfold me on the way back to the car. My burning curiosity over where I was being taken, and the unusual glamor of having a secret meeting in a secret underground room has faded away, to be replaced by Coulson’s words. The conversation plays and replays in my head as we reach the car. Rose and Natasha must have gone ahead because the car is empty. It is driven by a faceless chauffeur, who weaves the vehicle through streets too dark to recognize by the tinted windows. About halfway through the drive, I feel cold fingers wrap around mine and turn slightly to see Clint staring hard out the window, his jaw set. I settle back into my chair, convinced that it isn’t some sort of warning and squeeze the fingers in what I hope is a comforting manner. I receive a slight increase and then release in pressure on my hand in return, and can’t resist giving the teenaged archer a soft smile. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Why?” I inquires.

“I didn’t think Coulson would do that,” Clint shakes his head. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Coulson...Well, for one thing, I thought Coulson had died on a helicarrier seven years ago,” Clint gives an ironic smile. “Guess I should’ve known Fury wouldn’t have let that happen.”  
“Fury? He was the director of SHIELD, right?” I ask. 

“Retired now,” Clint nods. “But I thought-believed-that Coulson was different. I didn’t think he was the kind of man to...To put that kind of responsibility on your shoulders.”

“One that I chose,” I point out. 

“Isla, for all you’ve done, you’re a  _ kid _ ,” Clint says tiredly. “And you can’t make these decisions rationally.” 

“So I’m just supposed to accept that?” I demand, yanking my hand from his grip and crossing my arms. 

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to after a reaction like that,” Clint observes. 

“I was the only one who could talk to Bucky, I was the only one who could convince Tony not to kill him on sight, if I’m not allowed to decide, who the hell is? You? Who made you responsible for me?” I lungedforward, daring him to answer. 

“Your parents,” Clint answers softly.

“My  _ what _ ?” I blink. That’s the third time they’d been mentioned.  

“Your mom and dad wanted me to watch over you, and that’s what I’m doing,” Clint says.

“Well did they tell you that I’ve been living most of my life without them for the past four years, and am doing just fine?” I flash. 

“In boarding school. With teachers. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re independent,” a nasty edge has come into Clint’s voice, whether it is from the sheer exhaustion of arguing with Coulson or because he’s just gotten tired of fighting with or for or against me, I don’t know. 

“You agreed with Coulson,” I return weakly, shaken by the harshness of his tone. “That Bucky was coming to my school, that I’d have to watch over him.”

“Yeah. And I’m coming with you,” Clint shrugs. I feel the car stop and heard the locks unclick. I open the door without replying to Clint, wincing as sunlight washes over my face. As soon as I’ve adjusted to the sudden brightness, white flashes dance before my eyes. For a moment, I think the stress has finally gotten to me, and I’m about to black out or something before I realize that the flashes are from a hundred cameras, and the black dots are microphones being shoved in my face. After that, I feel Clint grab my arm and drag me through the bodies of the reporters shouting questions. The doors of Stark Tower open smoothly and shut behind us, cutting off the roar of people. 

“Welcome back Mr Barton, Miss Smith,” JARVIS’ voice greets. “Please go upstairs to the living room. Miss Romanoff, Miss Clavell and Mr Rogers are waiting for you there.” Clint nods his understanding and strides over to the elevator. Even shrunk to adolescent size, he still walks faster than I do, and I am left to scramble after him, rubbing aching temples from the noise of the reporters. 

“Who were they?” I ask. The indicator showing which floor the elevator is on counts up from one until thirty-five before Clint answers, 

“Reporters. Want the newest scoop on what’s happening with the Avengers. If they have any photos of you, we’ll delete them.” He is reassuring me with practiced but unemotional professionalism. There is a moment in the car when he held my hand-not a romantic one, mind-and I thought there was an understanding between the two of us, one where he’d be willing for me to make my own damn decisions. But then he goes and takes it all back when he says that he’s basically chaperoning me for the rest of my high school career. So it is with little to no joy that I enter the living room, wondering what Natasha and Steve want and hoping it’ll be short so I can tell Rose everything that had happened. 

“Why’d you take so long?” is Natasha’s first demand when we walk through the door. The room is filled with a tension thicker than the one with me, Coulson and Clint. Steve, Rose and Natasha’s faces ae nonchalant, but Rose looks visibly shaken, Steve’s mouth is pinched to one side in what looks like anger and Natasha’s face is utterly unreadable, which only means that something bad has happened. 

“Coulson,” Clint answers. He gives Natasha a look, and without another word, the two spies disappear to the far corner of the room and begin speaking very fast to one another in low voices. Rose and Steve are sitting on the couch, pretending to be engrossed in a game of cards but clearly straining to overhear Clint and Natasha’s conversation. I flop down next to Rose, leaning my head against her back. Sensing my distress, she puts her cards away and pull an arm around me. 

“What happened?” she asks. 

“Where do I begin?” I return wryly. “We met with Coulson.” 

“Coulson,” Steve repeats. “I still can’t believe that he’s alive.”

“Yeah,” Rose agrees. “Did Clint tell you?” I nod. “He took over after Director Fury. I think, now that Steve’s described him, that I’d seen him a couple of times at my house. Always during big parties, and never staying long. My father always got so serious when he saw him. I wondered who he was.”

“What did you and Barton and Coulson talk about?” Steve inquires. 

“Bucky,” I says. “Where is he, by the way?” At my question, Steve and Rose’s faces darken in unison. A sinking feeling starts to grow in the pit of my stomach. 

“Where?” I repeat. The two are still silent, looking first at each other, then at Clint and Natasha. 

“Where is he,” I say again, worry gnawing at the ends of my frayed nerves. 

“Observatory cell,” Rose answers finally. My eyes widen, and both Rose and Steve move towards me, Rose’s arm tightening around my shoulders. I’m faster, though, and break out of her hold, starting to run. I reach the staircase before Steve catches up with me-a fact I am honestly surprised about. I think the super soldier's strength is far superior to mine, but I’m going to examine the oddity as I sprint down the stairs, my knees popping in response to the sudden activity. Placards on the side of each floor flash by me as I ran; Costume Shop, Accounting and Administrative offices, Legal and Social sectors, I notice vaguely how those floors were strangely lit, casting shadows over the rows of desks that make it look like they were broken, covered in shattered glass. But that’s impossible--JARVIS would have had the damage incurred by Tony and Bucky’s struggle the day before cleaned up already...Gymnasium, secondary armory, Stark lab, Observatory. I skid to a stop, hearing Steve and Rose clattering down the stairs behind me, shouting warnings. Ignoring them, I open the door into the darkened room and look at the monitors. Bucky is back in the cell, sleeping on his cot. I relax for a moment before noticing the restraints on his wrists and ankles. I start down the stairs to the cell when a hand grabs my arm. 

“Isla,” Steve pants. “You can’t, he’s-”

“I promised myself he’d never end up in that cell again,” I snarl, breaking out of his grip. “He’s  _ my  _ responsibility and I damn well am going to take care of him.” I storm down the stairs, my mind spinning as I think of all the things I am going to say to Stark when I get a hold of him. 

“Miss Smith, Mr Rogers really doesn’t think it’s a good idea to-” JARVIS protests. 

“JARVIS, I can’t leave him in there,” I answer. Coulson’s words filter back into my brain, taunting me and hardening my resolve. “If you don’t let me in, I will find a way.” 

“I’m sure you will,” JARVIS sighs, the door opening. I must have been talking louder than I thought, because Bucky is starting to stir. 

“I’m sorry to wake you,” I apologize, starting towards him. His blue eyes flutter open, and I think I see something unfamiliar in them before I turn my focus to undoing his restraints. I start struggling with his right wrist, my anger boiling when I notice the welts made by the metal cuffs and knowing there is no way to take off the cuffs without some sort of electronic key. 

“JARVIS, I need you to-” I break off as the air in my lungs is suddenly sucked out by a blow to the stomach. Winded, my eyes watering, I barely see Bucky’s face, contorted in a grotesque animation of pain and anger that I’ve never seen before. 

“ _ Zhelaniye _ ,” I hear a harsh voice spit out. 

“I don’t know what that means,” I gasp, hands clutching my stomach. Through my hazy vision, Bucky sits up. Part of me is screaming that something is terribly, terribly wrong, and that I have to do something  _ now.  _ But I am still reeling from the blow, doubled over, and in this vulnerable position, it is easy for a silver arm to clench and then break free of its metal cuff and wrap around my neck, slowly beginning to crush my windpipe.

“B-Bucky, what happened,” I choke out, clawing helplessly at the unyielding fingers. 

“ _ Rzhavet _ ,” is his only reply. “ _ Semnadtsat _ .  _ Rassvet. Pech _ ” I search for any sign of recognition in his face, any sort of reaction or reason as to why he is doing this, but I can’t. 

“ _ Devyat. Dobrokachestvennaya _ ,” After each word, his fingers tighten around the skin. I can feel the skin bruising, blood rushing to the area of attack, flushing it red and leaving the rest of my body pale and weak. 

_ “Vozvrashcheniye domoy,”  _ All I see is blank, sightless eyes staring out of a emotionless face and wondered if the shaking, rattling breath I’d just drawn will be my last. “ _ Odin.”  _

“P-please,” I beg as darkness begins to close around my vision. I vaguely hear a crash behind me, the sound of splintering glass and shouts of warning. 

“ _ Grozovoy avtomobil. _ ” The fingers increase their pressure one more time, before suddenly releasing altogether. Having lost all control in my limbs, I slump onto the recently-vacated bed. My head lolls to one side, just enough so that I can see that the intruder is Rose. 

Now, before I describe what’s going on, let me take a quick step back. The angriest time I’ve ever seen Rose was when I deliberately pissed her off just to see what would happen (you must be thinking, “wow, what a #@)$($,” and my response to that is “I may be the co-narrator of this story, but I never said I was the good guy. You know where the lovely red button with the ‘x’ is on the left-hand corner of the web-page”). And do you know what she did? She went and picked dandelions. As she picked said dandelions she would mutter “I’m sorry, I’m just really angry” to each and every one before she threw them into a field of more dandelions. Afterwards, when she’d calmed down, she  _ apologized  _ to me for leaving me on my own. Me. The one who’d ticked her off in the first place. I’ve seen her upset or sad or worried or annoyed or whatever, but never truly angry. Never. Well, never until now. 

Usually, when people are really, really mad, their faces turn a bright red or puce. Rose’s face is white, her hazel eyes bright with fury. She moves with a sort of electrified grace, one that sparks power with every step and even through my quickly-darkening vision, I see her pick Bucky up by his neck. His arm tries to wrap around hers to break its grip, but her other hand, balled into a fist, clouts him across the back of the head. Stunned, he doesn’t try to move when she pulls him close so that they are nose to nose, his feet dangling two inches off the floor. 

“I swear to God, if you ever try to hurt my friend again, I will tear you apart until the only thing left is the dust from your metal arm,” she hisses. 

“ _ S-soldat,” _ Bucky replies weakly. Rose’s eyes darken and with a deep growl, she throws the Winter Soldier across the cell. His body crashes through the glass of the cell and slams to the ground fifteen feet away, the impact making a crater big enough to encompass his unconscious body in the ground. 

“Rose?” I whisper, just as my eyes began to close. “You’re awesome.

 

♕ ♞ ♛ ♘

 

I’m running. Running so fast tears are streaming down my face and black and white flashes in front of my eyes. My breath is forced out of my open mouth in short gasps, my thighs burning. A burning urgency drives me despite the pain, and I have but one thought in my mind;  _ Got to get away, got to keep running.  _ The logical part of me wonders what it is that I’m running from, because I can’t hear anything, and all I can see is the familiar greenery of the forest that surrounds my school. I’d run this same path a thousand times-what was wrong now? And then, just as I round the sharp bend before I reach the main road, a figure appears in the middle of the road. I skid to a stop, grey mud and stones flying every which way. The voice that has been telling me to run starts screaming, a wordless exhalation of fear and my heart rate skyrockets. I can  _ feel  _ my pupils dilate in terror, and though I can barely make out the face, I know it without having to see. Bucky Barnes, his metal arm reaching out to me, his lips stretched into a cruel smile. Without being able to control myself, I stumble towards him, my feet falling over one another until I reach him.  _ What are you doing? Stop, stop, STOP!  _ A voice is screaming, but I can’t stop moving and those metal fingers are around my throat and they’re squeezing so tightly and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t  _ breathe.  _

High-pitched beeping. Linen sheets. Something attached to my arm. And IV maybe? A worried face looming over me as my eyes snap open. 

“B-Bucky,” I stutter. 

“I know,” I recognize Rose’s really-terribly-horribly-worried face that she only wears when she finds out I haven’t slept in three days and haven’t eaten in two. “Isla, you were just dreaming.” 

“Y-yeah,” I nod. 

“So, uh, d’you think you can take your hands off your neck?” Rose asks carefully, her eyes trained on mine. I glance at her in confusion before the feeling of numb, but definitely very present pain gathers into my frame of recognition. Slowly, I peel my sweat soaked fingers off my neck, wincing, as I know it will leave bruises. 

“I’d help you, but they told me I can’t-” Rose suddenly breaks off, and there’s a helplessness in her eyes, a desperation that gives away how worried she’s been. 

“How long have I been like this?” I ask. 

“A couple hours,” Rose says. “Stark fixed the-the damage done to your neck. You’ll have bruising. More, now, that you were...Strangling yourself. I would have stopped you, but I can’t-” she stops herself again, her voice cracking. She takes a moment to gather herself, then looks at me. 

“I’m not allowed to touch you,” she informs me. I narrow my eyes in confusion. 

“Meaning?” I ask. 

“Meaning...Do you remember anything before you blacked out?” she inquires. I nod, reaching back past the horror of my nightmare to what had happened before. 

“You lifted up Bucky like he was nothing, and threw him across the room,” I remember, a small smile tugging at my lips. She gives a nervous grimace. 

“Yeah. So, it turns out that...Well, it turns out that the Avengers weren’t the only ones affected by the explosion. They run some tests, and it turns out that I...I can lift the same amount of weight as the Hulk can,” she says the last part without the least bit of humor, with the certainty of someone stating their name or age. I resist the urge to laugh, because after all that’s happened, this isn’t really all that funny because it’s actually possible. I examine her 6’2 frame, strong and comforting and beautiful, but then, nothing’s changed. 

“As strong as the Hulk?” I repeat, wondering if she was a hologram or something, and the real Rose was somewhere else, in giant green rage-monster form. 

“Doesn’t look like it, but yeah,” she sighs. “I checked. Twice. To make sure. They’re running tests on you now, but we need you to recover before knowing for sure.”

“Great,” I manage a grin. “I wanna get better so that I can get super powers too.” 

“Takes a little getting used to,” Rose admits. “When you were with Bucky, I shoved Steve out of the way and I ran through the doors-I mean, literally, ran through the glass-and I got there, but I wasn’t fast enough.” Rose’s eyes hover on my neck, and I can only imagine how bad the bruises must be. 

“It’s all right,” I console her. “Voicebox wasn’t knocked out, right? Bet you’re glad about that one.”

“Yes,” she says simply, and I get the feeling that my wisecracks to conceal the overwhelming fear and the confusion and the pain we both are experiencing aren’t going to help much. 

“I’m sorry,” she adds. “I should have been faster.” I frown.

“What are you talking about? From the way you tell it, you  _ saved  _ me. From my own stupidity, might I add,” I say ruefully. 

“Yeah,” she shakes her head. “There was a reason we told you not to go down there, you know.”

“What happened?” I ask. 

“HYDRA agent, pretending to be SHIELD,” Rose passes a hand over her eyes, and I notice the dark bags under them. “Another leak.”

“Coulson’s not going to be happy,” I muse. 

“Right, what happened? You were gone for so long,” Rose wants to know.

“He yelled at me, basically,” I shrug. “Told me I couldn’t be a SHIELD agent for what I did, and then told me I had to watch Bucky cause he’s my responsibility or whatever. That’s not going to happen now, though. Probably going to lock him up.” Rose notices my tone and gives me a funny look.

“The HYDRA agent didn’t come back for Bucky or anything,” she says. “We checked the security tapes afterwards, and he somehow got into the upper levels of Stark Tower. He found Bucky’s room. Bucky tried to attack him, recognizing him as HYDRA, but he started reading from this red book with a silver star on it. After that, I guess Bucky went haywire and went to the lower levels and started attacking the personnel.”

“The administrative levels?” I ask, remembering the shards of glass I’d seen. “But that’s not really...I don’t know. Wasn’t he just a hit-man? Why use him to just wreck a bunch of stuff. They could’ve just dropped a bomb or something if they wanted to screw with Stark.”  
“They didn’t just want to mess with Stark, they wanted Steve,” Rose shakes her head. “The whole Bucky situation was delicate from the beginning, and now we think it’s the final straw.”

“What Coulson warned me about,” I grimace. Rose nods. 

“Anyway, Stark came in and subdued him so we could put him back in the cell,” she continues. 

“And then I came in,” I smile wryly. “I should really try not to be so impatient.”

“Yes,” Rose agrees emphatically. “You should.”

“So then you went in to save me and that’s when they found out about you,” I guess. Rose purses her lips.

“The nightmare,” she switches the subject, clearly uncomfortable about her ‘power’. “Was it about Bucky?”

“Who else would it be about?” I return. “I know now that it’s not his fault-they must have triggered him somehow. So at least he’s not...You know, some sort of traitor. But still.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Rose asks seriously. It occurs to me, as we’re sitting there, me hooked up to what  _ looks  _ like an IV but is probably some sort of life-juice Stark created, my throat inches from being snapped by an assassin, her a friggin superhero. 

“What happened to us?” I ask instead of answering. Rose hesitates, her head cocked to one side in confusion. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happened to us? This was supposed to be...I don’t know. A long weekend holiday. And now you’re a superhero-” I start to say. 

‘Haven’t saved anyone yet,” Rose interrupts. 

“You saved me,” I remind her, and it’s enough to make her smile. 

“Regardless. I’m not a superhero. You’re going to get better, and we’re going to get out of this,” Rose says, with a confidence I know she doesn’t feel. I shake my head. 

“I don’t know. If we started something, we might as well finish it,” I say. Rose’s face darkens. 

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” she warns. “And I’m telling you right now, that it is a terrible idea.”

“And you will also know,” I reply. “That I will find a way to do this idea, if you try to stop me or not.”

“We’ll see about that,” Rose snorts, getting up from the chair. I lunge forward, grabbing her arm and ignoring how much the room spins when I move. 

“I have to see him,” I protest. She turns to me. 

“You might not think he’s a traitor, and maybe he isn’t,” she says. 

“He isn’t,” I insist. 

“Maybe,” she repeats, sighing as she removes my grip-which, I realize, must feel incredibly weak to her-from her arm. “But whatever he is, I know and you know that he is as dangerous and volatile as Nat and Clint told us.”

“Yeah, they said that, and then I went and talked to him,” I argue, knowing that I’m not exactly fighting the logical part of the dispute. And yet, my guilt for being angry with him, even guilt for him appearing in my nightmare as some sort of monster weighs heavy on me. 

“And then you went and talked to him again and he almost killed you,” Rose snaps. “I’m not having this argument with you, Isla. You need rest. I’ll have Stark lock the doors.” 

“No you won’t,” I growl. 

“Won’t I?” Rose’s eyes flash with anger, and it’s suddenly not so difficult for me to imagine her said-superhuman strength. I quail under her once-concerned, now-threatening gaze, struggling until I find the gall to continue. 

“He’s not...He didn’t  _ mean  _ to hurt me. You said it yourself-that HYDRA agent triggered him. So long as he’s in a stable condition now, I should be fine to talk to him.”

“You’re not fine to even sit up,” Rose observes my shoulders shaking with silent effort to support my frustratingly weak body. “Let alone walk around and interrogate assassins. No, I’m locking the doors.” And that’s all she says. She turns her back and walks out the door without another word. I’m left grinding my teeth in frustration as I hear the doors lock.


	23. A New Name (Rose's POV)

I walk hurriedly away from the medical room situated in the far corner of Stark’s lab where Isla is being kept, hoping she doesn’t do anything stupid. Screaming, for example, would only serve to stress her trachea,  _ and it’s not like I’m going back to help her either way _ , I remind myself resolutely. Of course, if she actually did scream, I probably will have to go back, but that’s because I have a bleeding heart and Isla knows that as well as I do. I’m almost surprised that she doesn’t use that against me, since that’s what she usually does when she’s sick-that is, manipulates me into doing stuff for her until she’s well enough to do it herself. Fantastic friendship, I know-but conclude that it’s probably for the best. If I’m lucky, she’ll have fallen asleep. Stark said she’ll be very weak for a while yet, unable to walk around and cause trouble even if she wanted to. 

A shudder involuntarily passes through my body as I remember the events of the day. I returned with Natasha to Stark Tower, been congratulated by Steve for becoming an agent, and settled with him on the couch to play cards until Isla and Clint arrived. We heard a terrific banging and crashing moments after we’d sat down, and immediately knew it was Bucky. For one thing, the noises were coming from where his room was (separated from the rest of the bedrooms, per Tony’s request) and for another, I was pretty sure he was the only person other than Natasha who knew how to speak Russian. And he was, those awful ten words that he kept repeating again and again as he ran down the stairwell, Steve and I close behind, trying to catch him before he entered the personnel levels. We failed, of course, and he was fighting his way through the hordes of terrified administrators and technicians. It was all Steve and I could do to get them out the doors safely, and even then...My mind pulls the images of various broken bodies being rolled away into ambulances, knowing that Isla could have just as easily joined the ranks of solemn black body bags that were laid out on the street after the mayhem was over. 

I’m not quite sure how Isla and Clint  _ didn’t  _ notice the wreckage, but then, JARVIS and his team of AIs are blessedly efficient in clearing away the damage.  _ Damage.  _ That was what ANNA, Tony’s medical AI, told him when Isla lay in the same metal tube I’d seen on the Quinjet. Tony called it the Cradle, and said that it healed faster than any other medical device known to man, but it certainly didn’t feel fast enough at the time. Isla was unconscious, pale and barely breathing when I carried her to the Laboratory, and was turning a light shade of blue when they put her into the Cradle itself. I can hear ANNA’s analysis in my mind as clearly as though she (or it?) is speaking right next to me.  _ Severe damage to her windpipe. Lungs and brain went under considerable strain when deprived of oxygen. I would suggest a generous dose of the compound- _ that’s where the memory cut off, my own brain so overwhelmed with the paralyzing fear of watching what could very well have been my best friend’s death in front of my own eyes. It was then, when it felt like I could barely breathe myself, that I felt Steve’s fingers twine with mine. In any other situation, I would have probably started said something stupid and awkward, but I was in so much distress I couldn’t speak. Instead, I gripped his hand, as if it would somehow anchor me to this insane reality I hated to call my own. My mind shies away from the memories that follow, probably because they’d involved the near-death of my friend, but it suddenly becomes very hard to breathe. Stark’s laboratory starts to spin and I clutch blindly at a nearby table, but the metal tabletop crumples like aluminum under my fingers and I crash into the floor, cracks spidering across the glass surface. My face squashed against the glass, I can see the lower levels of the laboratory, wondering dully if it’s even worth getting up. And then,

“Rose? Are you okay?” Steve. Of course. 

“Fine,” I grumble, hoping he’ll leave me alone, and knowing full-well that he won’t. 

“D’you need any help?” A warm hand curls around my arm and I involuntarily relax into his touch, one that I find-to my surprise-I’ve come to associate with comfort.

“I just need air,” I resign myself to an awkward conversation about why I was lying on the floor for no apparent reason. 

“Okay. I do too,” Steve’s hand tightens around my bicep and gives it a gentle tug, prompting me to get up. I grab the edge of the tabletop (the same one, might I remind you, that I’d already half-broken), but a huge chunk breaks off when I try to pull on it. I suppress a silent scream of frustration and carefully set the metal down, praying I don’t accidentally break anything more. I avoid Steve’s eyes, even as he offers me his hand, not wanting to have to see the polite mask that hid the disgust at my ungainly movements. 

“There’s a garden balcony the next floor down,” his voice says. I stare resolutely at the floor and nod, shuffling after him as he heads down the stairs. 

I manage to reach the balcony without breaking anything else, which I suppose would be a plus if I weren’t in such a bad mood. Letting out a loud sigh, I lean my elbows on the edge of the balcony and try really hard not to feel calm and happy by the stunning NYC skyline. 

“You doing okay?” Steve asks. 

“What do you think?” I snap. It’s not fair to take out my anger on him, but I don’t feel particularly inclined to yell at a wall about my problems, so Steve will (unfortunately) have to be my punching bag. 

“Isla almost died because of your best friend, HYDRA keeps appearing in the one place that you said was safe for me and Isla, and I can’t even control this stupid strength thing.”

“Stupid strength thing?” Steve repeats, his eyebrows raised. I glare at him. 

“ _ Yes.  _ You know, the thing that keeps me from hugging my best friend, and breaking everything I touch and making me feel like some sort of-of clumsy toddler trapped in a giant’s body,” I sputter out. 

“I know the feeling,” Steve smiles. 

“No, you don’t,” I reply petulantly. “And don’t look at me like that. You and I both know that you’re Captain America. You’ve been bloody perfect since you came of out the womb. God, you’re so  _ annoying  _ sometimes, I just want to punch you in your perfect teeth. But then, I can’t, because if I did, I’d break your bloody  _ face. _ ” I watch him, almost wishing that he’d actually punch me. Then I’d have the excuse to hit back, because the truth was, I just really wanted to punch  _ something _ . 

“I wasn’t always Captain America,” Steve corrects. “I was a skinny, sick kid from Brooklyn before the serum. And I knew what it was like to be scared, and helpless and so damn angry you want to fight anyone who crosses your path-and I still do. And I’m  _ not  _ perfect.”

“Yes you are,” I scowl at the shining lights of the Chrysler Building, hoping Steve would eventually go away. 

“I ran through a wedding shop after I got the serum. Broke six windows, dented three cars, and snapped a surprising amount of peoples fingers when I shook their hands,” Steve says. I turn back to him, my eyes narrowed. 

“Oh, and I couldn’t hit anything with the shield for a long time,” he continues. “Kept coming back and hitting Buck in the side. I swore it wasn’t intentional, but then, you never knew.” I draw in a sharp breath as I remember that in all this, he’s lost his best friend all over again. Well,  _ his _ best friend was a ruthless assassin and  _ my _ best friend was a 5’3 cinnamon bun who liked to write fanfiction and wore onesies when it was cold, but I can see room for empathy. 

“What’re you trying to say?” I ask, the pugnacious tone still not out of my voice. 

“That you aren’t some sort of...clumsy child trapped in a giant’s body,” he says finally. “Give it time, and you will grow into it.”

“Time,” I huff. “Is not something any of us seem to have a lot of.”

“Maybe not,” Steve replies, and his eyes are sad.  _ Nice one, Rose,  _ I congratulate myself sarcastically.  _ Now you’ve made him even sadder about losing all his friends. Again.  _ “Do you believe in God, Rose?” I’m so busy silently berating myself that the change in subject makes me jump. 

“Wha-Oh. Um, well, Isla and I were confirmed Episcopalians two years ago but…” I trail off, shrugging. 

“Considering that I’ve met two gods, it shouldn’t count for much, but I do,” Steve gives me an ironic smile. “My ma used to pray every day, and I guess it rubbed off on me, idea of a higher power and all that. Anyway, even though HYDRA were the ones who put the gas in the air, it didn’t necessarily have to develop into a mutation. Isla’s didn’t.”

“What?” I’m genuinely surprised by this, assuming that Isla would have had powers. It was selfish, I knew, but I was sort of looking forward to experiencing the adjustment period with someone else. I wouldn’t want to wish the frightening loneliness that came with being painfully “other” than everyone else, but knowing that she’d never understand it made me even more isolated than before. 

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “Stark finished running preliminary tests. It’s possible she might develop something later, but we can’t know for sure. So, you see, it didn’t have to develop in you but it did. And there’s a reason it did.”  
“Well that’s the nice way of putting it,” I scoff.

“Oh?” And what’s the other way?” Steve asks. 

“God has a sick sense of humor,” I mutter, wondering if this was a good idea to say in front of a clearly devout person. 

“We’ll see,” Steve doesn’t look offended, thankfully, just amused. 

“You know what we’re going to do?” I ask, suddenly feeling the fight go out of me. Steve looks out at the buildings and shakes his head. 

“Wish I could say that I did,” he says. “But no. There’s just so much to this that I don’t understand-back in my day, things used to be a lot simpler.” I snort in derision at the awful joke, and he gives me a gratified smile. 

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Coulson’s alive. I mean, I  _ know  _ he died. Your fa-I mean, there were other people there when he died too,” he finishes his sentence too quickly and my eyes narrow. 

“My what?” I press. I see Steve pale and grip his arm, maybe a little too tightly as he gasps in pain. I let go, but raise my hand in warning and he caves,

“Your father. He was on the Helicarrier five years ago. With Isla’s father. They heard Fury give the call.”

“Why was my dad and Isla’s even on the Helicarrier?” I frown. “They never met each other until Isla and I met.” Steve’s eyes are downcast, and he shifts uncomfortable. God, this boy was even worse at lying than I was. The thought was vaguely comforting. 

“Steve?” I prompt. 

“They were agents,” he reveals reluctantly. “SHIELD.” 

“Well I can’t really say that I’m surprised,” I say after his words have sunk in. “I mean, they knew Stark, and Coulson knew them and...I guess I’m just surprised that they didn’t tell me.”

“You took that pretty well,” Steve remarked. 

“What?” I look at him. “You never thought your parents were secret agents?”

“No, not really,” he smiles sadly. “My father died when I was very young-mustard gas. My ma and I contracted severe pneumonia when I was fourteen. My ma...Didn’t make it.”

“That’s awful,” I say, hoping my tone will convey how truly sorry I am. 

“Nah,” Steve’s eyes crinkle at the thought of some happy memory. “She made a mean lamb and potato stew. Lamb was hard to come by back then, so usually I had to, uh,  _ convince  _ the shopkeeper to spare some.”

“Convince?” I repeat, my eyebrows raised. “D’you mean you swindled the shopkeepers of Brooklyn for lamb?”

“Swindled’s a harsh word,” Steve protests. “I promised I wouldn’t tell his wife that he’d use his lunch breaks to go across town to go bowling.”  
“What was so bad about bowling?” I laugh. 

“His wife’s father owned a dancing bar just next door. He was always competing with the bowling center, but eventually went out of business,” Steve explains. 

“So you  _ blackmailed  _ him?” I correct myself.

“Not blackmail,” Steve shakes his head. “I provided an opportunity for a mutually beneficial exchange.”

“You should’ve been a lawyer,” I say. “To think; the revered Captain America black-mailing shopkeepers for racks of lamb.”

“They were always the best cuts of meat,” Steve declares. “And besides, Captain America may be “perfect as apple pie” but that certainly doesn’t mean Steve Rogers has to be.”

“So that’s how you deal with the superhero-dual-identity thing?” I ask thoughtfully. He nods.

“Might work for you, too. You’re going to need a name,” he tells me. 

“A name?” I repeat, confused. 

“Yeah. She-Hulk’s one idea,” he offers. I wrinkle my nose. 

“I’d hope for something more original,” I say. 

“Alright,” Steve agrees. “You think of one.” 

“Um,” is all I can say, and then it’s quiet for a long while. About a hundred names, each more ridiculous than the last, flash through my head. “AY YO ROSELLE D’YOU KNOW WHAT YOU WANT YOUR NAME TO BE”. 

“THE NAME. Not bad,” Steve smiles. “Suits you.” 

“You think so?” I ask nervously. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “And, uh.” He stops and laughs. 

“What?” 

“It’s stupid,” he shakes his head. 

“C’mon, tell me,” I beg, curiosity piqued. 

“The perfect Captain America facade? Every time I go up against some...Some crazy villain or whatever, I pretend I  _ am  _ the Captain,” he says. 

“I’m confused,” I declare, brow furrowed. 

“Okay, but all those comics that were written back in the ‘40s. The great Captain America. Most people don’t know, but I was just out selling bonds. Dancing monkey, really, but everyone thought I was this superhero who could defeat anything. Over the years, there’s been a lot that defeated me, and if there’s one thing I can tell you right now is that this superhero thing is hard and lonely,” he says. 

“Wow, you’re really selling this,” I raise my eyebrows. I didn’t know about the ‘dancing monkey’ thing, and was surprised at the tone of bitterness that had entered his voice. 

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Steve pauses and looks at me, his blue eyes fierce. “You’re going to make an amazing-”

“Superhero?” I cut in. “I don’t think so.”

“And everyone thought I was one, but it was only when I disobeyed direct orders and went miles behind enemy lines to rescue my best friend that I thought I was anything close to what they told me I was,” Steve shrugs. “It’s complicated and it’s difficult, but once you start believing in what they say the fear goes away and it’s easier to be a superhero.”

“That was surprisingly dark,” I comment, head cocked to one side. 

“Never said it was easy, but...Saving people? (hunting things, the family business) It’s the best thing in the world,” he shakes his head. “I’m just sorry you’ve gotten dragged into this. You’re still a kid.”

“You seen yourself lately,” I joke, nudging his shoulder. 

“Point taken,” he chuckles. “It’s weird, you know. The last time I was this age, I was half my size and could barely go outside without coughing hard enough to burst a lung. Kids at school would beat me up almost everyday, but I get the feeling that if I went out now...”  
“You could be the gorgeous captain of the football team,” I interrupt him, gesturing vaguely at his face. 

“Sorry, what?” he frowns, confused. I bite my lip, realizing the mistake I’d made. 

“Uh, I mean, that you are healthy enough to play with the football team,” I try to backtrack. “Healthy, having gorged on the food that you can now digest?” I’m saved from having to dig myself an even deeper hole by a sudden blaring noise that rips through the quiet evening air. 

“Alert, alert,” an automated voice warns over the loudspeakers that are (apparently) placed all over Stark Tower. “Intruder in Cell B. Intruder in Cell B.” Steve and I exchange glances. 

“Isla,” we say in unison, before we get to our feet and run for the door, conversation forgotten. 

“I swear, I’m going to kill that girl one day,” I gasp as we hurry down the stairs. It’s a testament to my *undying* patience that I don’t snap the flimsy stair-rail after my handprint is left in the crushed metal for the fifth time. If you’re going to make a rail for people to hold on to, at least make it out of something  _ sturdy.  _ Noticing my frustration, Steve gallantly offers me his arm to hold on to for balance as we clatter down the stairs. I smile my thanks and we continue down. 

When we reach the Lab, however, we’re stopped by three burly men in suits. They simultaneously produce wallets similar to mine, which, when flipped open, reveal their SHIELD IDs. 

“We’re going to have to ask you to stop right there,” says one of the men.  He has sandy-blonde hair and a nasty scar running across his left eye. I shudder with dislike but follow Steve, who has his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. 

“We want to see Mr Barnes,” is all he says. 

“We are securing the area, so that won’t be possible,” the agent answers. 

“Then we’ll just wait here,” Steve decides, folding his arms. 

“I’d like to remind you that we  _ can  _ just punch our way out of here,” I growl. At my words, the agents produce weapons from their suit pockets. 

“These are icers, but they have been specially designed to take out your gifts,” the blonde guy says.

“Um, okay, whatever that means, my friend is in there. She’s supposed to be resting in a hospital bed with an IV right now,” I explain. “And she’s kind of stupid and a pain in the arse but I have to get her out of there, so if you’ll just excuse me.” I try to push past the men, my body tensed in order to react to whatever they tried to attack me with when Steve’s arm stops me. 

“Wait,” he says, and his voice isn’t that of a friend, but the order of a commander (or captain?). “We should listen to the nice men.” He gives me a look that I think is supposed to be meaningful, but I have no idea what the meaning  _ is  _ so I just glare at him. I know that in the event I get past the SHIELD agents, I still have no idea what lies beyond the Lab doors and so need Steve’s help.

“Why are we waiting,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, falling back to his side. The agents relax a little, pointing their guns downward. 

“For this,” Steve replies. Fast as a striking viper, he kicks the firearms out of the agents’ arms and delivers a solid punch to the blonde agent. I recover from my momentary shock and shove the other two agents’ heads together. The slide to the floor, their foreheads trickling blood. 

“Oh, I hope I didn’t hit them too hard,” I worry, kneeling down to wipe away the blood. 

“ _ Rose, _ ” Steve chastises. He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Isla and Bucky, remember?”

“Right,” I nod, and we open the doors into the Lab. 

“Miss Clavell,” I know that voice. Steve and I turn around to see the Director of SHIELD, flanked by six more agents. Bollocks.

“Hello Steve,” Phil Coulson greets.

“C-coulson?” Steve stammers. “B-but you _died,_ I heard Fury say that Loki stabbed you!”  
“For thirty seconds, yes,” the director smiles wryly at the memory. “But that’s a story for another time. I gather you’ve taken care of the three agents I placed outside the door.”  
“Sir, Bucky and Isla are in here,” I protest, pointing towards the Observatory. 

“Yes. I’m not the only one here who’s been brought back from the dead,” Coulson says. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

“Why not,” Steve demands. “Coulson, come on. This is the _best friend_ of Captain America.”  
“And also one of HYDRA’s greatest Assets,” the director shoots back. “I’m sorry Steve.” 

“How did you even get in here,” I ask, even though I already know the answer. 

“Who do you think?” Coulson replies. 

“Tony?” Steve’s tone is incredulous. 

“Tony,” I confirm disgustedly. 

“He wouldn’t,” Steve mutters.

“That looks a hell of a lot like him,” I point over to the doors of the Observatory, where I can just make out Tony’s dark hair and slight build. It’s at that moment that I realize how easy it would be to snap him in half. Like a twig. The realization emboldens and terrifies me at the same time, but I find myself growling,

“And I think it’s time we had a little chat.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, his usually calm face stormy. 

“Sorry,” Coulson doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. Well, maybe he does, but it’s buried beneath a thick layer of almost-manic devotion to his job. “Can’t let you do that.” He motions to his group of minions, who fan around us. 

“Stand down and no one gets hurt,” Steve says. 

“You don’t have your shield,” Coulson shakes his head, and I almost detect sadness in his voice. Huh. Steve  _ was  _ his idol, but if that was the case, then why wasn’t Coulson helping us?

“Why’re you doing all this, anyway?” I ask. 

“Aside from hours of labor from an understaffed, over-worked team, and half of New York out for blood because of the scene Mr Barnes caused, my superiors have decided to intervene. Miss Smith and you, especially after your recent ‘development’, have created enough of a headache that we’re going to suspend all contact between you and any member of the Avengers,” Coulson informs me. 

“Separate?” I sputter, glancing at Steve, who is glaring slack-jawed at the director. I stiffen up at the feeling of cool metal sliding across my wrists and realize that Coulson’s distracted the two of us. I start to struggle, but Coulson holds up a hand. 

“Indefinitely,” he says, and I freeze. 

“What?” Steve manages to choke out, his face contorted as he chafes against his handcuffs. 

“As soon as Miss Smith is removed, by voluntary or involuntary action, you will both be returned to your school,” Coulson says. 

“So that’s it then?” Steve sounds furious. “You’re ‘suspending’ all contact? You can’t  _ do _ that.” 

“Can’t I?” Coulson challenges coolly. 

“Coulson,  _ please, _ ” Steve begs, and his tone snaps something into Coulson’s eyes. I think it’s guilt and my heart soars. 

“Go talk to Stark, then,” he concedes tiredly. He walks towards the Observatory and we stumble after him, the SHIELD agents silently forming a ring around us. We’re about twenty feet away from the Observatory when Clint, Natasha and Pepper burst into the room behind us. 

“Steve? What the hell is going on?” Natasha demands. As she strides toward us, the SHIELD agents scatter in her wake.

“Why are you guys handcuffed?” Clint stumbles after her, looking at Coulson for an explanation. 

“They refused to stand down,” Coulson explains, shrugging slightly. 

“That’s not true,” I shout indignantly. 

“You would have had I not distracted you,” Coulson points out, and I fall silent because that part probably is true. “I hope I won’t have a problem with you, Agents.” Natasha and Clint look as though they  _ are _ going to be a problem, but as soon as Coulson says ‘agents’, their faces subside into forced obligation. 

“We’re going to talk to Tony now to sort all this out,” Steve says. Realization dawns on both Natasha and Clint’s faces-for what I don’t know-and they nod somberly. Satisfied, Coulson goes on ahead with his agents, leaving us behind. 

“I’m sorry about all this Steve,” Pepper says, and from one look at her face, I know that she’s known long before any of this happened. 

“Why did he do this? Call Coulson, everything?” I ask. 

“Stark Industries was already getting enough heat from the press as it was, but Bucky’s behavior sent them over the edge,” Pepper says as we resume walking. “It was all we could do not to get them to storm the Tower-there was a mob forming yesterday.”  
“Isla and I saw it when we were coming back from meeting with Coulson,” Clint agrees. 

“The only thing that would quiet them was a press conference where we swore that we’d take ‘administrative action’,” Pepper frowns, her blue-grey eyes sad. “Coulson’s recently been named the head of the ICU, and he was called to monitor the whole process-there’s cameras documenting the whole thing.” 

“Including the part where we took out three SHIELD agents is on record?” I ask glumly. Pepper nods. 

“But Coulson’s promised that he’ll only show it to a select few who can manage to keep everyone else quiet without actually releasing the footage,” she assures me. 

“So he didn’t want to do all this either?” Steve asks hopefully. 

“It’s hard to say,” Pepper says. “The Phil I know would never do such a thing, but after New York and Loki, he’s changed. They say he’ll do anything for his work.”

“Guess that’s what happens when you die and come back to life,” Steve muses bitterly. We’ve reached the Observatory now, and I can see Tony talking forcefully at Isla and Bucky.

“If it makes any of this any better, Tony didn’t want anything to do with this,” Pepper shakes her head. “He was willing to forgive Bucky for everything and work on a cure for you guys, but if he didn’t comply, the US government had threatened to take away Stark Tower, disband the Avengers and revoke any protective measures that were standing for them.” 

“For example, they could arrest me for treason,” Natasha says grimly. She turns to Pepper. “I guess that’s why Tony sent us that intel?”

“He was hoping you’d leave as soon as you’d received it,” Pepper admits. “Out of sight, out of mind sort of thing if the Bucky situation went sideways.” 

“We wanted to see Rose and Isla before we flew out,” Clint says. 

“Where are you going?” I narrow my eyes. 

“Stark picked up a trail on the agent that broke in,” Natasha answers. “We want to bring him in, see if we can get some answers.”  
“Not only that, prove that Bucky isn’t as volatile as everyone thinks,” Steve interjects. 

“Maybe,” Pepper says dubiously. “But we think that putting Bucky back in cryo will help stabilize him.”  
“Is that the ominous-looking coffin sitting in his old cell room?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Pepper replies. 

“He can’t go in there,” Steve’s face is drained of blood. “The cryo was used when he was the Soldier. You can’t tell him to go back.” 

“Well, he’s going inside right now,” I observe.


	24. I Ignore Rose and Bad Things Happen (Isla's POV)

As soon as Rose left, I completely ignored her threats and removed the IVs from my arm. I waited in the hallway of the Medical wing until I saw her bump into Steve (they were  _ really  _ cute) and go off together. Smirking to myself, I turned back to survey the room, searching the ceiling area for a security camera. I had no doubt that if I tried to break out, JARVIS would know before I managed to get to the Observatory. After much dithering and muttering about how much easier this would be if I had a body double, I finally settled for sticking one of the pillows underneath the bedsheets, arranging it so that it sort of looked like a body. It wasn’t the most convincing ruse I’d pulled, but it was the best I could do. Knowing that I was short on time, I ducked out of the room and walked quickly down the hallway to the stairwell. I peered down to ensure that no one else was coming down or up before heading down to the Laboratory level. Aware of the time slipping through my fingers until JARVIS saw through my trick, I pressed on despite my increasing dizziness. When I reach the Observatory, the doors were mercifully unlocked. 

“At least something’s gone right,” I muttered to myself. Apparently, I spoke too soon. 

“Hello Miss Smith,” JARVIS’ voice says pleasantly. 

“Hey JARVIS,” I answer, praying that my voice isn’t reduced to a high-pitched squeak in my surprise. 

“May I be permitted to ask what it is that you are doing down in the Laboratory?” he inquires. 

“You’re permitted to anything except that,” I quip, trying to smile. Of course, trying to charm an AI doesn’t exactly work, because JARVIS isn’t human, so I’m not really surprise when he continues speaking,

“Permitted or not, Mr Stark has given express orders for you to stay away from this area, and I’m afraid you have to leave.” 

“Oh, but,” I stall, thinking desperately for an excuse. And then,

“But Mr Stark probably didn’t tell you about the new change in plans.”

“Change of plans?” JARVIS asks, clearly intrigued. 

“Yeah, he wants me to go and ask Bucky about what happened to Rose. Very hush-hush, though. With all the SHIELD-turned-HYDRA agents running around, he didn’t know who to trust,” I babble. 

“I should think that he would trust the AI who has been at his side since the beginning,” JARVIS sounds offended, and I try to backtrack,

“Oh, he does, absolutely, it’s just that he’s afraid the technological systems in the Tower might be compromised.”

“So they might,” I’m shocked that JARVIS is starting to agree. “In fact, I think I have some tests to run in the far server. I will return shortly to keep an eye on you Miss Smith. Until then-” he breaks off to the sound of the door of the Observatory opening. I breath a sigh of relief and shout my thanks before hurrying through the room of beeping monitors and into the questioning room. The glass shards of Bucky’s cell remains scattered around a new contraption that looks freakishly like a coffin. Glass facets allow me to see inside, where Bucky has been forced into a standing position, his eyes downcast. A wave of disgust washes over me at the way he’s been restrained-cuffs tightened so much that I can see the bruises. He hasn’t even been allowed to change his clothes, which are torn and ruined from Rose’s attack. He doesn’t see me come in, doesn’t even look up until I tap on the glass. When I do, he blanches. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. 

“Nice to see you too,” I answer wryly. 

“You need to leave,” he says. 

“No,” I reply, crossing my arms to conceal how much they’re trembling. The sudden physical strain on my body is beginning to take its toll, but the last thing I want is for Bucky to get upset because I pass out in front of him. 

“I tried to kill you,” he says dully, his previous anger dissipated. His eyes turn down again, as if unable to meet my gaze. “Rose threw me out of the cell, just there.” He points, to the crater in the ground twenty feet away and I chuckle involuntarily, even though I know that there’s nothing remotely funny about the situation. 

“She’s a strong one,” he observes, an odd look on his face. 

“No kidding,” I agree, wondering if he’s been told or has figured out what happened to Rose. 

“But that’s not why you’re here,” he states. “And even if you  _ were _ here to ask if I knew anything about HYDRA’s plans, I can tell you that I don’t know.” 

“I’m here,” I pause, considering how I should choose my words. “Because we need to talk.”

“About me killing you?” he’s really set on the whole killing thing. 

“Okay, first of all, you didn’t kill me,” I assure him. “See? Still alive.”

“The bruises,” he protests. “The raspiness of your voice. How you can barely hold yourself upright.  _ I  _ did that to you.”

“That wasn’t you,” I say firmly. “That was the Soldier and you know it.”

“I’m there, you know,” his voice has dropped down to a whisper, eyes dark and wild and filled with such guilt that any reservations I’d had about seeing him after what he did to me disappears. “I watch all of them die. I watch myself hurt people--hurt you. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“But you know, then,” I say encouragingly. “You know that it’s not  _ you  _ who’s doing it, don’t you?” He hesitates before nodding slowly. I smile, beginning to settle into the same feeling I had when I’d first met him; what happened to him was awful and unspeakable, but he’d come a long way already, and I was just there to put the pieces together for him. 

“Yeah, but I should be able to control him,” he says, anguished. “I shouldn’t have to be trapped in my own body, always terrified of who I’m going to hurt-or kill-next. I told you, at the beginning. I told you that I hurt people.” If before he was trying to convince me to leave, that intention’s gone now. He’s almost as tired as I am, head drooping against the plastic headrest. 

“I’m so tired,” he murmurs finally. “I’m so tired of living like this-I thought it would get better, but it hasn’t.” My eyes are stinging with tears at his confession, accompanied by deep concern for his quick change through emotions. It’s only when I see the puncture wound on the inside of his right wrist that my concern changes into fear. 

“Bucky,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. “Do you remember anything being given to you? Pills, syringes maybe?” Blue eyes snap up to mine, the lugubrious depression replaced by a fear that mirrored mine. 

“I-I don’t think so,” he frowns. “I woke up and I was in here. My right wrist hurt like hell, though.” He twists the arm in question and cranes his neck to see the patch of flesh before turning back to me, face pale. 

“What did Stark put in you?” I ask, having no doubt that if anyone was going to inject Bucky with something to affect him the way I suspected that it did, was Tony. 

It was, at that exact moment, that an alarm loud enough to shatter eardrums screamed through the building. 

“INTRUDER ALERT INTRUDER ALERT,” an automated voice-not JARVIS’, mind you-announces. As if the alarm is a galvanizing reminder to what I want to do, I stride towards the door. To my dismay, it’s locked shut. 

“Hoping to sneak out before Stark caught you?” Bucky asks. 

“No, actually, it’s him I need to talk to,” I reply. “If he did something to you-” I trail off abruptly when there’s a knock at the door. But it’s not Iron Man that stands behind the door. It’s the Director of SHIELD. 

“Hey Phil,” I greet cheerfully, wondering if there’s a release button on the coffin-cell thing. I can count three, maybe four agents standing behind their director, and have no doubt they know fifty ways to kill me using only their elbows but figure they’d have a harder time with Bucky. For once, it seems as if there’s an answer to my prayers, and I see a little red button at the bottom left corner of the cell. I press the button with my heel and almost faint with relief when the restraints unlock and the door opens. Bucky stumbles out of the coffin and just manages to catch my arm before I keel over. The dizziness had been increasing ever since I left the med wing, and it seems I’ve reached my limit. I can feel, by the stiff way that he holds me that Bucky isn’t happy with the situation, but he wasn’t about to drop me either. 

“I can still hurt you,” he whispers, frightened. “You shouldn’t have let me out.”

“If and when they break down that door,” I reply out of the corner of my mouth, ignoring his warning. “I need your help to beat them out so we can make a run for it.”

“And go where? We’re in Stark Tower for crying out loud,” Bucky points out, his grip tightening on my arm when I sway again. 

“I-I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t think ahead that far.” I allow my eyes to flutter closed as the enormity of the pickle I’d landed myself-and Bucky-in settles on my shoulders. I’m beginning to feel quite faint when Coulson’s frustratingly conversational voice comments,

“From what it looks like, you should be in the hospital.” His light tone doesn’t fool me for a second. When my eyes open, they narrow almost immediately in suspicion as he steps closer. 

“You’re going to want to step aside,” he informs me coolly. 

“Isla,” Bucky mutters warningly. 

“Why’s that?” I ask brightly, ignoring Bucky. 

“Because that cell is specifically designed for cryostasis,” the director says, with the same voice one would use to invite a friend to dinner. 

“Oh you mean the thing that HYDRA used to freeze Bucky in for decades,” I answer, voice dripping with sarcasm to mask the fear that jolts through me. “Glad to see that SHIELD’s learned from its Nazi and KGB-supported counterpart.” 

“Newest model,” despite the irritation that flashes across his face, Coulson remains infuriatingly calm. 

“Stark-tech I’m sure,” I reply acidly. 

“Actually, yeah,” a voice says. 

“Anthony Howard Stark,” I say, injecting as much venom in my voice as possible. 

“Ooh, say my name,” Tony sighs dramatically, sauntering forward. It’s all I can do not to slap him. “I’m going to be nice and not yell at you for leaving the medical wing. I’m also not going to yell at you for tricking JARVIS into going into lockdown. By the way, this door being locked doesn’t matter because now that the containment unit’s been de-stabilized, the entire room can be frozen into cryostasis. You know, I’m actually in an excellent mood.”

“What, because you’re freezing an innocent man into an ice cube?” I snap.

“I have the remote, to start the process right here,” Tony tells me, his voice so stiff he sounds like an AI. “It doesn’t matter if you open the door or not, I’m pressing the button.” I stand stock-still in shocked silence, and can feel, even through the glass, how surprised Bucky is too. I thought he’d harbor a grudge, but somehow believed-or hoped, stupidly-that he’d understand that it wasn’t Bucky, that none of this was. But looking into the whiskey-colored eyes of one of the richest, and maybe the most twisted, men in the world, I know that that was only a fool’s dream. 

“Do you know,” I say finally, my voice shaking with fury. “That my little brother  _ idolizes  _ you.”

“As do a lot of kids,” Tony says cockily, but his eyes watch me carefully. 

“God, you arrogant-” I stopped myself. There was a reason I was doing this, appealing to the one thing I hoped would override his hatred for James Barnes. “Anyway. He looked up to you because he says that you built your own suit. I thought it was a pretty stupid reason. Didn’t block out all the other stupid stuff, like the women and the booze that he was too little to understand. But what he said next stuck out for me.”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Tony says tightly. “Barnes, either open this damn door or I will turn on the cryo for this whole room.”  

“And freeze a civilian?” Bucky speaks to Tony for the first time. 

“Didn’t seem to have problems doing that with an innocent,” I retort. 

“She’s not a civilian,” Tony replies, incensed. 

“Sir,” one of the agents taps Coulson on the shoulder urgently. With difficulty, Coulson controls his annoyance at being interrupted and turns to the man. 

“What,” he says, in the carefully-measured tone of someone who is at the end of their patience.

“Captain Rogers and Miss Clavell just arrived on the Laboratory floor,” the man informed him, his eyes wide in trepidation of what his report might cause. 

“The doors are secured, aren’t they?” Coulson asks, almost boredly. 

“Er,” the agent looks uncomfortable. “Sir, it’s  _ Captain  _ Rogers. And Miss Clavell’s got, uh,  _ heightened  _ abilities now.” Coulson lets out a huff of impatience and turns to Tony.

“Please don’t do anything drastic until I get back,” he says. “And Miss Smith?”

“Yessir?” I answer, with as much saccharine sweetness as I can muster. 

“In case you were wondering, you have been stripped of all your SHIELD privileges by this latest act of insubordination,” and with that, the director disappears from view to go deal with Captain America and my superhero of a best friend.

“Okay,” I roll my eyes as soon as Coulson’s gone. Never one to lack an answer after being reprimanded, I felt the need to explain myself, even if the one I was defending myself from wasn’t there to hear it. “One,  _ he  _ didn’t order me to stay in the medical room. Two, the terms of my connection with SHIELD were to watch over and be responsible for Bucky, which is exactly what I’m doing, and three-”

“You got into SHIELD?” Bucky asks conversationally. 

“I did actually, yeah,” I reply, momentarily ignoring the present company. 

“Congratulations. Sorry about getting you fired,” he apologizes. 

“Nah, s’alright,” I shrug, fighting to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter, because Tony is turning a faint shade of puce at Bucky’s nonchalance is hilarious. “Didn’t like my boss much anyways.”

“I’ll press this button,” Tony cuts in, irritated at having lost the upper ground in the situation. I’m about to fling back another snappy remark when a quick glance at my companion’s face stops me; despite his devil-may-care attitude, there’s a deep fear in Bucky’s eyes. I suddenly remember that the last time he was put in cryo was when he was the Winter Soldier. And then my fast talk and bravado doesn’t seem quite so commendable as it does selfish and unfeeling. 

“I  _ will _ ,” Tony warns, raising his hand. Inside his palm is a silver stick with a blue button at its center, his thumb hovering above it. 

“Stop!” Bucky’s voice suddenly rings out with the same command that Steve’s does. “Don’t, Stark. I’ll go without another word. But don’t press that button until she’s on the other side of those doors.”

“Getting attached, are we?” Tony’s mouth is twisted into an ironic smile. 

“Yes,” Bucky replies simply, looking at me with eyes so blue and honest it makes my heart hurt and everything else-Tony, the cryostasis, Coulson-fall away. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, even after everything that I’ve done.”

“A life for a life,” I say, only really realizing what I’m saying after the words have left my lips, realizing that this is, in part, why I felt such a drive to come to James Barnes’ aid. “You saved mine in Bosnia, before you even knew who I was. I’ll do anything I can to repay that.”

“You already have. You didn’t need to come back after I nearly killed you,” he says, his voice heavy with remorse. 

“You don’t need to do this,” I find that I’m begging him, gripping my hand with his metal one in the hopes that the physical contact will add strength to my plea. 

“Going into cryo will suspend my emotions as well as the rest of my body, giving me time to go through all my memories as the Soldier until I’m ready to control them,” he explains. 

“You can do that without using the same process HYDRA forced on you,” I point out. 

“And hurt how many more people?” the worn, callused pads of his fingers ghost across the bruises on my neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I involuntarily recoil from him, and immediately regret the fresh wave of guilt the washes over him. He clears his throat uncomfortably, withdrawing his hand from mine. 

“The cryo is intensive, but it’ll work. In fact, it’s a much better sentence than what someone like me deserves from Tony,” Bucky says. He then levels his gaze with Stark, and the strangest sort of understanding passes between them. Afterwards, the pain that suddenly stands out so clearly on Stark’s face and the way his body is held with such tension I’m sure it will snap under the strain stops me from being able to hate him with a clear conscience. 

“Thanks, Barnes,” is all he says, in a short, clipped tone that hides a grief I know with relief that I cannot fathom. 

“Okay,” Bucky looks at me, and the most terrible kind of forced-cheerfulness appears on his face. 

“I’ll, uh, see you around,” he says. I don’t reply. I can’t. Instead, I just watch as he climbs back into that awful glass coffin. 

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper. He shakes his head, giving me a half smile. 

“I’m never hurting you again,” he promises and closes his eyes as the cuffs slide over his wrists. 

“ _ Bucky, _ ” the cry is torn from my lips as Tony presses the button. His eyes snap open and I give a choked sob at the sudden fear that sparks in them as the glass frosts over in front of him. Suddenly, his previous calm has disappeared and he’s struggling against his restraints and he’s shouting for help, shouting for  _ me  _ and pleading with those blue eyes that are filled with tears of helplessness. Horror pooling at the pit of my stomach, I’m screaming at Tony to shut it off, shut off the cryo and bring him back but Tony’s saying that the process can’t be stopped. I hear someone that sounds a lot like Rose yelling my name, and Tony’s voice again saying, ‘ _ Dammit Steve if you bust in there and break the glass you could kill him’ _ . I find myself wondering desperately how in the span of three days I’ve managed to care so much about this boy with a metal arm, why there are tears coursing down my cheeks because I  _ never  _ cry, but I’m crying now as his attempts to escape become more feeble. Finally, he stops moving altogether and the frost coagulates into a thick mist that obscures his face and body from view. 

“Bucky,” I whisper, my hands sliding down the surface of the glass as I sink to the floor, shaking with sobs and fatigue. I vaguely hear the doors open and people rushing in before blackness washes over me.


	25. Six Ways Goodbye (Rose's POV)

Isla is immediately put onto a stretcher and rushed out of the room by the SHIELD agents. The rest of us form a group around Bucky’s cryo cell, the scene that had just taken place sobering enough to keep us silent for a long while. Tony is the first to speak,

“I’m sorry about the handcuffs,” he says. 

“They were needed for the cameras,” Coulson adds. “Which reminds me. Rose, you and Isla still need to return to your school, if not for the proper PR more than anything.”

“I hope you were joking about the no-contact thing,” Steve attempts to crack a smile and fails miserably. Coulson looks confused and shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. “The US government has asked that you join the ICU as an asset, and your first assignment begins tonight. Deep cover. Three months. No contact regardless.”

“I’m sorry, do I get a say in this?” Steve sounds surprised by the quick turnaround, his face still pale from Bucky’s sudden and brutal departure. 

“Not if you want Major Talbot and the extensive resources he has at his disposal to storm Stark Tower and take Bucky into an undisclosed United States Government holding facility,” Tony answers sharply. 

“We get Captain America, you keep the Winter Soldier,” Coulson summarizes. “Agents Romanov and Barton should be shipping out for Bengal in less than half an hour, and their missions will probably not include contact with civilians living in New Hampshire. I suppose you could always contact Mr Stark, but the reporters that will swarm your house as soon as the call goes through are not, I am told, the best company.” Coulson gives a slight smile and then glances at his watch. 

“I can’t say that this was a pleasant meeting,” he says. For a moment, I can see how heavily he carries the weight of his title on his shoulders and wonder how many friends he’s lost in an attempt to do his job. “But I hope we can meet again under less distressing circumstances. Ms Potts? There are some things I need to discuss with you.” And just like that, he and his agents are gone, practically disappearing from the Laboratory via a small elevator shaft I didn’t even know existed. 

“Goodbye, Rose,” Pepper smiles. “I wish I could have left under better circumstances. It was lovely to meet you.” And then she’s gone too, her heels clicking neatly on the polished floor. 

“Coulson’s right,” Natasha nudges a dazed Clint. “We have to get going.” 

“Right,” Clint’s eyes are unfocused, and he has to clear his voice a couple of times before he can speak again. “Right, yeah. Rose, if you could, uh, tell Isla that if she tries anything like that again that I’ll find her and…” He trails off, his eyes startlingly bright. With another false cough he turns and marches resolutely out of the room. Natasha, who is just as surprised as everyone else by Clint’s sudden emotion, places her hand on my shoulder. 

“You’ve done a lot of good,” she says. “You would have made a damn good agent. Clint and I are going to miss you guys.” Her eyes are wet when she hugs me goodbye, and so are mine as I watch her red hair disappear from view. 

“Rose,” Tony’s hands are outstretched. In response, I cross my arms protectively around my chest and his face falls.

“I should’ve expected that,” he says lightly, even as surprise and hurt flash across his face. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small glass vial. 

“Take this,” he says. 

“What is it?” I ask suspiciously, not taking the proferred glass. 

“It’s a serum,” he explains. “It’ll subdue your powers for the moment. If you’re going to go back into civilians, you don’t have the time to figure out how to control your powers, and the last thing we need is someone crackpot journalist running around causing trouble.” I take the vial and down it in one gulp, as if swallowing the bitter liquid will wash every mark the past few days had left on me. 

“Tell Isla that I’m sorry,” Tony says, after watching me drink the serum with interest. 

“So am I,” I say coldly. Even though I know that it’s not Tony’s fault, and that he was doing the best that he could, I can’t erase the awful look on Isla’s face when she saw Bucky fade into the cryo and if I blame it on myself, the weight would be too much to bear. Instead, I choose the hot guilt that bubbles within me as I watch Tony Stark’s dejected form leave the Observatory. 

“And then there were two,” Steve’s voice says. 

“Yes,” I smile briefly, finding myself unable to hold it for long. “Just us now.”

“Isla’s going to be alright,” he assures me. I nod. 

“Bucky’s not,” I say in a low voice, and want to take it back as soon as the words leave my lips. 

“We’ll see,” Steve replies, a sort of manic faith burning in his eyes. I recognize it-it’s the sort of thing you cling to when you have nothing else left, and if you believe in it enough, you can sometimes convince yourself that you’re okay. I open my mouth to say something nasty to snap him out of it, too tired to be polite, but just manage to stop myself.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m usually the optimist, but with everything that’s happened.”

“It’s a lot,” Steve soothes. 

“No, it’s not,” I shake my head vehemently. “I’m sorry, again, Steve.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says. 

“No, I do!” I protest, almost shouting. “I do, this is all my fault.” And then I’m crying and I don’t know how to stop. Big, fat tears roll down my blotchy cheeks and I cover my face because I know I look a mess. 

“Rose,” his voice has dropped almost to a whisper, and I feel gentle hands pulling away my fingers. I’m shaking with silent sobs, so shrouded in my own sorrow that it’s a while before I notice that his arms are wrapped around me and I’m crying into his shirt. 

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I’m sorry for burdening all my problems on you like this. You’ve been so helpful with everything, with the superhero thing and my name and now this, I’m so  _ sorry. _ ” 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Steve starts to ask, his lips just next to my ear. “That I  _ like  _ listening to you?” I give a broken chuckle. 

“I don’t think so,” I say, pulling away from him. I stop when I see his eyes, nose inches from mine and I shouldn’t stay there, shouldn’t imagine him kissing me because he’s  _ Captain America  _ and I’m, well,  _ me,  _ but I can’t help it. 

“Will this change your mind?” He turns his head a little to the side and he kisses me. My mind explodes, a million thoughts chasing around and around in my head (for example: why is he kissing me. Kissing is weird. Why do people do it? Why is he kissing  _ me? _ He’s probably just emotionally damaged from losing his best friend. This has nothing to do with me. So then why would he kiss me? Just shut up and enjoy it), all the while trying to memorize the way his lips mold to mine and the way his breath hitches when I run my hands through his hair. 

“Miss Clavell?” I do not think, in all of my life up until this moment, I have hated hearing a British accented voice more. JARVIS at least has the good grace to sound embarrassed. I break away from Steve, noticing that he doesn’t take his hands from my waist. In fact, his grip tightens. 

“Yes, JARVIS,” I measure my voice carefully so as not to sound as irritated as I actually am. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the AI sounds flustered. “But the Quinjet is waiting at the top of Stark Tower with Miss Smith and both of your luggage to return you to your school. I have been told by both Director Coulson and Mr Stark that you are to go there immediately.”

“Um, yeah. Will do. Thanks, JARVIS,” I say, relieved when a click sounds through the room. Hopefully, that meant JARVIS was giving a few moments of privacy. 

“I had to do that before you left,” Steve explains as soon as JARVIS is gone. “I don’t know how this leaves things, seeing as to the fact that I probably won’t be able to talk to you for the next three months, but...If there’s one thing I can promise is that I’ll see you again. Somehow.” 

“Somehow, huh?” I muse, a smile playing at the corner of my lips when I peck him on the cheek. “Then I’ll be seeing you, Captain.” 

“Hope so NAME ROSELLE NAME,” he gives me a jaunty salute and I laugh. 

“Goodbye, Steve,” I say, raising a hand in farewell as I make my way towards the door. 

“Goodbye,” he answers, mirroring the action. 

“Oh, and Rose?” I turn, hand on the glass panel leading to the Laboratory. Steve takes a deep breath, and sadness rushes back into his face. I feel somewhat embarrassed at having kissed him right after his best friend had been frozen into an ice cube, but then, it was a really good kiss. And he kissed me first. 

“Tell Isla that Bucky’s going to be okay.”

“I will,” I promise. I leave Captain America in the Observatory and walk, as if in a trance, to the elevators. I find myself on the windy tarmac on the top of Stark Tower a few minutes later, hurrying quickly towards the Quinjet. It feels empty without the accompanying team of Avengers, and all the more chilling with Isla’s unconscious form encased in the glass cylinder. I sink into one of the seats, barely even processing JARVIS’ greeting, thanks for my promptness and warning to buckle in. There’s a jolt as the Quinjet takes off, but I don’t bother to look out the window to watch New York City fade into the pink clouds. I’m too busy processing the hasty goodbyes of my friends; Clint, Tony, Natasha and especially Steve’s. It’s about an hour until Isla stirs, and I’m right by her side. 

“You really need to stop ending up in here,” I tell her through the glass. 

“I guess so,” she says. I fiddle around with the controls for a while before giving up and asking JARVIS to help. In a moment, Isla is released from the glass cylinder. She gets to her feet and walks over to one of the seats and sits down heavily. Despite the bruises on her neck looking significantly healthier, post whatever healing process or drug the SHIELD agents had performed on her, she looked older and more tired than I’d ever seen her (which is saying something, because that includes the night before her chemistry exam). 

“You okay?” I ask hesitantly, when her silence is so absolute it’s starting to worry me. 

“Yeah,” she croaks, and I wince involuntarily at the remembrance of what Bucky-the Soldier-had done to her. “As okay as I can be.” 

“We’re headed home on the Quinjet now,” I inform her. 

“I figured,” she answers in a dull voice. I purse my lips, wondering if there’s anything I can say or do that will push some life back into her. 

“Steve and I kissed,” I tell her, as nonchalantly as I can. I see her eyebrows raise and she turns to me. 

“That’s great, Rose,” she says, and there  _ is  _ warmth in her voice. Encouraged by my success, I continue recounting the goodbyes of all of the other Avengers. 

“Clint really wanted to say goodbye-he and Natasha are going on a mission to try and find the HYDRA agent who broke into the Tower,” I say, watching her carefully for any sort of reaction. 

“That’s all right,” she says thoughtfully. “We’ll see them after they kill the bastard.” Worried about the cool violence in her voice, I pause before continuing,

“Er, unfortunately, Coulson says we won’t be able to talk to them.”

“What? Why?”And then I relate the rest of what Pepper told me. Her face grows darker and darker, her questions more and more laconic until I finish. She doesn’t respond for a long time, just stares out the window. 

“Steve says that Bucky’s going to be okay, you know,” I say. I can see her swallow hard, then set her jaw. 

“That’s it then,” she says, as if she hasn’t heard me. “That’s the end of our time with the Avengers.” 

She doesn’t speak about that weekend again. It’s not like we can tell any of our friends at school-Coulson’d put them in witness protection and lock us God knows where-but even when we were alone, she never mentioned it. I thought she just needed time to process everything that had happened, but after she started dating a junior named David, she got so wrapped up in him and his friends that the end of the school year came and went and we were parting ways for the summer before she said anything. It was when she was helping me pack up my dad’s old Toyota with the furniture from my room. 

“You know that weekend?” she asks. 

“Yeah?” I answer, not needing an specification-there was only one weekend she  _ could  _ be talking about. 

“Sometimes I wish I could forget about the whole thing,” she says. She’s staring at the ground, so I can’t see her face and I say tentatively,

“If that’s what you want, with enough time you probably can.”

“I can,” she says flatly and walks away.


End file.
